Highlander Honor
by Daishi Prime
Summary: A voyage down the Trade River turns into a flight from a sinister organization more interested in blood than words. Set in Alderach Entertainment's 7th Sea RPG, Former 1shot upgraded to full story. Rated for inuendo & violence.
1. Highlander Honor

**Highlander Honor**

By Daishi Prime

"Look, I don' like takin' no women aboard, an' I don' like takin' no kids. Y're both."

Maeve sighed again, shaking her head. She was sick and tired of everyone in Eisen assuming she was a child, just because she was short. "I'm no child, Captain," she told him, "MacCodrum children are kept close to home, until they're not children. Since this obviously isn't the Highlands," she waved grandly, taking in the entirety of the scruffy river-port, "obviously I'm not a child. I'm short, not young. And what you don't like doesn't interest me. I can meet your price for passage for a single person. I'll even go you one better, and offer to help protect the ship until we reach the mouth of the River."

"Don' like taking women aboard," he said, still glaring at her. He was big, even in comparison to some more normally sized, an old river-boat captain gone to seed with more fat than muscle, but a respectable portion of both. He was also dirty, smelly, and running a ridiculous racket ferrying refugees, charging through the nose to take already poor people out of ruined Eisen. "What good'll a girl do 'gainst pirates, eh?"

_As if Father's claymore isn't blindingly obvious. Damn thing's taller than I am,_ she thought. Aloud, she smiled politely, using the more obvious part of her blood-father's inheritance to its usual stunning effect, "Captain, I may be little, and a woman, but I assure you, no one gives away these tokens." She reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a small copper medallion, twice the size of a coin, dangling from a green ribbon. The captain's eyes widened slightly at the Swordsman's Guild symbol, then grew wider when she flipped the medallion to show her name and face engraved on the opposite side. "MacDonald school," she said after a moment, "only an apprentice, yes, but still a Swordswoman. I can use the sword I'm carrying, Captain. Even better, unlike most MacDonald practitioners, I can use it aboard ship just as well as on land." Mentally, she reminded herself, _I could use it better, if we weren't so bloody far in-land._

The Captain still seemed to be debating the issue. She knew he had the space, the few remaining Eisen who could afford his asking price could also afford to stay, or had already found other ways out. She also knew she would not be able to stand being this far from the sea for much longer, and her family was waiting for more word from her than a mere letter, if those had even survived to reach them all the way back in the Highlands. She needed this boat, so instead of tapping her foot impatiently, she smiled endearingly and waited calmly.

"Fine," he grunted after a few seconds, "half now, half when we sail at dawn, same as the rest o' the cargo." Maeve nodded, maintaining the smile, and handed over enough guilders to cover half the exorbitant price he was charging. "Now get off me boat. Don' want no girls i' the way when cargo's comin' aboard. Back a'fore dawn, girl, 'r I sail wi'out ye."

Maeve nodded, and retreated before he changed his mind. Not that she was about to trust him, but she could keep watch on the boat just as easily from one of the taverns as from aboard. A tub like his would not move quickly, she was sure, so as long as she could see the boat, she could get aboard before he could slip his moorings.

She found a tavern conveniently placed at the end of the dock. It was nothing spectacular, a small warehouse who's owner had removed the front wall. A few yards back he had set up a simple bar of empty barrels, without even a plank over top, and a few more empty barrels imitated tables. Unwilling to go further, Maeve took a seat at the corner of the bar, back to the wall, and decided to nurse a drink until it was time to board the boat. If the bar was cheap and pathetic, the beer was worse, making even the usual watered down piss she had found through the rest of Eisen look good. _Nothing like my Highland brews,_ she thought, careful to keep the thought to herself. Two months crossing war-ravaged Eisen on foot had taught her that, tired or not, the locals would still fight at the drop of a hat for their 'honor'. The war just made them better at it. Smiling, she remembered, _'Course, Mother never did like me having a drink, especially not around Eamon. Poor boy could barely handle one beer, let alone five or six._

"Hey, barkeep," she said before he could disappear to the next customer, "got a question for you." He just looked at her, so she pulled a ragged piece of cloth from her shirt. A square patch of MacCodrum tartan, a white wolf's head in profile was sewn on with black thread and a yellow sword-shaped eye. "You ever see a group of mercenaries with this symbol?"

He looked it over for a moment, "What if I have?"

"My little brother was in the unit, Highland Wolves they called themselves. Bunch of idiot kids, had no place being here, but like I said, idiots. They disappeared, no word on if they were killed off or simply wandered away to greener pastures and forgot to send word. My parents asked me to look around for them, and this is my last stop in Eisen. So, any word?"

"I seen a guy with it," he allowed slowly, after making her wait a moment. "Six, seven months ago."

_A month or so after they vanished,_ she thought, interest rising, _could I really get this lucky this late?_

"Didn't have that fancy color pattern behind it, though, just a leather vest. Big guy, seven feet maybe, black hair, Ussuran."

_Or maybe Queen Maab's still playing games with me. _She shook her head, "thanks anyhow. My brother's unit was all Highlanders." She folded the patch and put it away again, letting the barkeep, such as he was, get back to his business, poor as it was.

For a while, as the sun settled to the west, she merely sat at the bar and watched as various items of cargo were loaded aboard the boat she would be sailing on. Mostly those were uninteresting, crates and barrells, many also wrapped in canvas tarps. More interesting were the people who approached the ship as she had, searching for passage west. She saw several families, children pathetic and scrawny, parents even scrawnier, a few individuals, usually in better shape. Some managed to argue the captain into taking them aboard, most did not.

"Tha's te ship. Ge' a goo' look, we wan' te ge' tha righ' one tomarra nigh'."

The comment, low, rumbling and heavily accented in Eisen, attracted her attention more because it was coming from the far side of the wall than for its content. Between the bar and the next warehouse was nothing more than a narrow alley, certainly not a place anyone would normally be standing. The answer to that comment locked her attention on the conversation, wall or not.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Fool doesn't know what he's doing, using a tub like that. I'll recognize it, dark or not. Just make sure you've got the longboats and tow-lines ready. Muffled, like, remember?"

"I 'member," the first voice replied. "We shou'na be talkin' abou' this 'ere. Jus' be sure you'll rec'nize te ship."

_It's a boat,_ Maeve thought inconsequentially. She knew ships, real ones, and the captain's tub did not qualify. It was closer to a barge, in Maeve's opinion, and a poor one at that. _Damn it, why did I have to hear this now? Two months in this mud pit country, a fight every other day almost. I'm almost out, why the hell couldn't these fools have kept quiet?_

As she saw it, she had two choices. She had promised the Captain to protect his boat until they reached the mouth of the River. She could make the argument that such a provision did not apply until the ship sailed, and given his attitude, she was sorely tempted to do just that. But... she had not said when she would start, which left the possible interpretation that she was already responsible for protecting the damn boat. Even if she did go with her first inclination, which was to lean back and get what enjoyment she could out of the local yellow water, she would have to deal with these jokers tomorrow night, in the dark.

"Bloody hell," she snarled, shoving away from the bar hard enough to set a barrel to wobbling. Out the front of the bar, she spun right and entered the alley. As she expected, the two men she had heard were just exiting the back end, so she hurried up to catch them. She followed them through several more alleys, almost loosing them in the warren of buildings and waste. They both looked like normal street toughs to her, big and muscle-bound, but not particularly dangerous.

She finally caught up to them in a small pseudo-courtyard formed by three warehouses and a collapsed fourth. They were talking with three more men, two other obvious thugs and one much better dressed man. Sneaking along was relatively easy here, with the noise of the streets nearby and no branches or bushes to snap and rustle at her passage. The fact that she was under five feet tall with a weight to match helped, but she never admitted that, to anyone. She came close enough to hear the first pair reporting.

"... righ' where ya said i' was, boss," the first voice rumbled. "Alrea'y 'board te ship, loik, but Gunt'er here reckons he'll know i' tomorrow night."

"I'll know it tomorrow," 'Gunther' confirmed, "well 'nough ta get the boats ta it an' get the bomb placed."

"Good," 'Boss' lacked his subordinate's heavy local accent, and as he continued, Maeve recognized his pronunciation as Montaigne, rather than Eisen. "Remember, Gunther, that we require the ship intact enough to recover the cargo. Your explosives had better not sink it. Just stop it and get the crew's attention, yes?"

Deciding she had heard enough, and that the five represented little to no threat, Maeve sang out, "Hey boys, could any of you point a girl in the direction of the local law? If there is any, that is. I've got some would-be wreckers I need to have arrested."

She smiled as dead silence fell, followed by curses and the sound of daggers being drawn. She let the confusion reign for a moment, then drew her sword and stepped out into the mouth of the alley. "Sorry to ruin your fun, but I'm going to be on that boat tomorrow night, and I don't fancy having it blown out from underneath me."

The brutes started to move towards her, each of them wielding a heavy knife almost as if they knew what they were doing with them. They stopped at a gesture from the Montaigne, however, and he stepped between them to consider her, leaving his rapier sheathed. The two of them studied each other silently, and Maeve had to admit she was slightly impressed. He was obviously a fop, as all Montaignes, but he carried himself like a dangerous one. His clothes were fancier than any Eisen would wear these days, but still practical enough for travel and combat. His sword was beautifully appointed, but the scabbard was plain leather and worn from use. Most importantly, his eyes were rock steady and calculating as he studied her.

"No need to get excited, men," he said calmly, waving his brutes back, "I believe we can resolve this amicably enough. I won't insult so beautiful and exotic a woman as yourself by claiming you did not hear what you think you heard. So I ask, what would it take, miss, to convince you to _forget_ you heard this little conversation? I can arrange transport for you down-river on another ship, even reimburse you whatever you paid that fat fool on the dock, with a little extra for the inconvenience. Actually, now that I think of it, I could probably even find a place for you in my employ, in any number of entertaining and valuable ways. What say you, miss?"

_My Lady could teach him a thing or three about flattery,_ Maeve thought, grinning slightly. "I'm afraid, Montaigne, that I am disinclined to betray existing bargains for the uncertain promises of a fop and a braggart."

He did not appear to notice the insult, "A pretty woman like you should be more careful, docksides like this can be quite dangerous."

Maeve just raised her claymore, letting the blade settle back to rest on her shoulder. "I think I can take care of myself."

He looked her up and down, then gave her a superior smirk, "I'm not sure a little girl like you even knows what to do with a sword."

That stung. Maeve stopped smiling and glared at him for a moment, looking him over, then smirked right back. "I will admit that I'm rather bored with fighting Eisen. They're so predictably direct, but you might prove interesting. Come, braggart, show me if _your_ sword is truly as… tiny and flimsy as it appears."

He flushed slightly, mouth tightening in anger, and Maeve's grin grew wider. "A girl such as yourself should not be so free with her tongue. Men might get the wrong impression." He shook himself, visibly regaining control, then continued in a more cultured tone, "You understand, I have no wish to destroy something as strikingly attractive as yourself, but I cannot let my Lord's plans be set to naught. Please, Miss, do not scream too loudly. Such will only get more innocent bystanders killed." He gestured again, and the four thugs parted around him to close on her.

Maeve shook her head, dropping the claymore from her shoulder to a ready position, held sideway, guard at her hip, blade at a sharp angle almost flat to the ground to one side. "You boys really should be running for your lives right now. You have no idea what you're dancing with."

They came at her in a group, spreading out to encircle her, moving with the slow easy confidence of street toughs facing a little girl. Much as her small size annoyed Maeve, she knew enough of combat to exploit every advantage she had, and being constantly under-estimated was one of the best. She shifted slightly, trying to look frightened as they closed, then took the offensive when they reached optimal range. The pommel of her blade came up almost to her shoulder, and she lunged at the one furthest to her right, a wildly flamboyant maneuver that only looked un-coordinated. The brute, she thought he was 'Gunther', was so surprised that he barely flinched, until the heavy metal tip of her blade punched in through his ribs and out his back. He choked around the wound, hands coming up, but Maeve wrenched the blade free before he could get a grip on it, spinning to contemplate the three remaining brutes as Gunther fell to the ground.

The three remaining checked, staring with some surprise at their erstwhile comrade. Then they growled almost as one, and charged her. Her attack on Gunther had, however, ruined their encirclement, and they blocked each other rather well. A sideways heave of her claymore left a gash on the closest, though it did not take him down. As the other two moved around him, Maeve moved forward and used the momentum from her slash to roll her sword up and over for a down-ward back-hand at the same brute. He tried to deflect the strike with his dagger, but his small cheap blade had nothing on hers, and he fell with a shoulder crushed into the lung beneath.

Two more daggers came at her, one a ragged slash, the other a lunge that tried to disguise an attempt at grappling. She let the slash go past by leaning forward over the second brute, then rolled into the slash to avoid the grapple. Another wrench, and she swung wildly at the grappler. He managed to duck out of the way, and she let the blade go up and over her shoulder. It would keep the other brute off her for a precious second, and set up her next action. As the brute came out of his duck, she slammed the pommel of her sword into his face, sending him sprawling backwards, blood leaking from the gashes on his face. Maeve ignored his fall, other than thinking, _thank you, daddy, for disrespecting tradition. _The three spikes forming her sword's pommel had been his idea, a vicious variation from the traditional polished orb or disc.

The last brute was now trying to get away more than fight, backing up rapidly, but Maeve was not foolish enough to let a functional enemy, even an inept one, escape. He slashed at her wildly again, leaving a light graze across her shoulder. She ignored the strike and lunged again, catching him lower and nearly gutting him when she swept the blade out sideways, using momentum again to spin herself around to face the Montaigne once more.

He was still standing in the same spot, staring at her with new respect and what might have been fear. Maeve, for her part, was content to stand still for a few seconds, getting her breath back. The MacDonald school required significant amounts of exertion, and even the few seconds of that fight left her breathing hard, though she was not actually tired. It was the suddenness and intensity of the activity that left her winded.

A shift in the Montaigne's gaze to over her head caused her to tense, expecting an ambush. Before she could move, however, the object of his attention pressed herself into Maeve's back, long arms wrapped in green silk folding around Maeve's waist to settle on her hips, a long cloak of white hair falling to partially shroud her vision. "You are so beautiful when you are killing, my love." The voice, like glass bells tinkling in her ears told Maeve exactly who it was, even without the sharp scent of cinnamon. "You should indulge more often. I so enjoy watching you dance."

With a long-suffering sigh, Maeve slumped into the embrace, arms dropping limp, sword falling until the tip rested on the ground. "What are you doing here, My Lady? This far from the ocean, from Avalon, it's dangerous out here, especially for you. We are very far from Bryn Bresail. Someone might notice."

"Oooohh, do not worry for me, little one. I have not seen you in days, lover mine, and I missed you. You have not danced for me since you left the Highlands."

Sighing again, Maeve corrected her, "Months, My Lady, you have not seen me in months."

Maeve could hear her Lady's pout, "That is even worse. I _missed _you. The Isles are _boring_ without my gorgeous little green-haired killer."

"Please don't call me that. You make me sound like a monster."

"But you are a monster," her Lady laughed, a light, tinkling sound like ice falling in a glass, "_my_ monster."

"Ah, excuse me? If I may interrupt this little... lover's spat?"

Maeve looked up again, eyes widening in surprise. "What are _you_ still doing here, idiot?"

"I believe I was here first," the Montaigne replied arrogantly, "and however easily you may have dispatched the hired help, you will find I am not so easily defeated. I am not incompetent, after all. Though, as I warned you, your refusal to simply die has merely assured that your lover will be killed with you."

Maeve stared at him in disbelief. _He can't be that ignorant, can he? Can't he see what she is?_ Then he drew the rapier and main-gauche hanging from his hip, settling into a comfortable stance just shy of being a swordsman's. _Check that. Montaigne. Not enough brains in the entire nation to fill a thimble, and this guy's obviously striving to be the dumbest Montaigne ever._

Aloud, she said, "My humblest apologies for the affront this fool has given you, My Lady. Shall I chastise him suitably for you, or would you prefer that pleasure for yourself?"

"Ooohh, you so know how to excite me," her Lady whispered in Maeve's ear, before kissing the top of her head. "Kill him for me. Humiliate him first, but kill him."

Maeve nodded, and stepped out of her Lady's embrace. The Montaigne raised an eyebrow, stepping back slightly, but Maeve merely took her time, bringing her claymore around to mid-guard and studying his posture. He was leading with his rapier, tip angled up from his hip, right leg forward, body half turned. The main gauche in his left hand was dangling loosely, but it was also half-hidden from her view. _Two weapons to my one,_ she thought, _but they're both little things. I can take a couple hits, probably, but I only need to get him once._

He shifted, and the two of them began circling, weapons shifting position very slightly as they moved, gauging each other. The fight with the brutes had been about speed and power. This would be a true duel, formal or not, with and both of them wanted to be certain of their enemy's skills before committing themselves. "You really should have run, Montaigne," she offered, "even if you do manage to beat me, you're just going to make My Lady angry, and you don't begin to have the capacity to face her."

"Oh, I think I'll be able to handle her." He glanced over to where her Lady was also circling the fight, and leered at her rather obviously, "Who knows, I'll probably be able to handle her better than you do, yes?"

Maeve chuckled, shaking her head. She did not even need to look behind her to know that her Lady's sharply defined face was sneering back at him. "Please, what would you know about handling a woman? I'm sure I've had more than you, all one of her. More men too, I bet." she paused but when he opened his mouth to counter, she added, "Of course, you've probably _been _had by more men than me. Though I understand you Montaigne cheat, and count the dogs, too, yes?"

He flushed at that, growling and tensing for just a second. Maeve took advantage of the opening and attacked, a fast tip-first attack that, while not fast enough to leave her as open as a true lunge would, was fast enough to fool an inexperienced swordsman. Either he was not inexperienced, or she was not fast enough, because he spun to her right, folding his rapier to one side to guide her strike past, trying to punch the main gauche into her side just beneath her extended arm.

Maeve countered by shoving her blade towards him. It was not a strike, but combined with her forward momentum allowed her to use him as a fulcrum to lever herself away from his attack. The two of them completed their spins face to face, just as far apart as they had begun, but a quarter way further through their circle. Maeve felt a trickle of blood down her side, the stinging sensation of a cut running along a rib, and shook her head.

"Bravo, my love," her Lady whispered in her ear, one fine pale hand caressing her sword arm, "an exciting beginning. But you really should go all out, if you're going to try that trick. Half methods buy you the worst of both worlds." It was a little unnerving, having her Lady in such close physical proximity during a fight, but Maeve was getting used to her antics by this time, and suppressed the shiver. Ignoring her Lady, Maeve focused on her enemy, noting his surprise at her Lady's actions and storing it away for potential later use.

He settled back slightly when she did not immediately attack again, and their circling resumed. "Maybe you should pay attention to the fight, miss, instead of seducing your lover all over again?"

Maeve snorted, "And here I thought you had eyes, Montaigne. She claimed me, not me her. No one seduces a Sidhe."

"Every woman can be seduced," he countered, feinting high with the rapier, "though I'll take your word for it. She does seem rather... spirited for someone your age to have caught."

Maeve swayed away from both feint and follow-on attack. "I'm older than I look." She took a swing at him, another test, as he withdrew.

He blocked her strike easily with the main gauche. "And I must say, you look very good for your age."

"Flattery will get you almost anywhere," Maeve sidestepped his slash, noticing the extra force behind it as he grew serious. "Or at least, it would if you were as skilled with your sword as you seem with to be your mouth." She tried another almost-lunge, whipping the blade sideways at the last second.

He leaned back and tried to rush her, rapier leading with the main gauche coming in just behind. "Ah, but wouldn't you love to find out how skilled my mouth is?"

She beat aside the rapier but missed the main gauche, earning herself a deeper slash on the leg. "No, I've never had much of a taste for pork." _That's two hits to my none,_ she thought, _I can take a few more, but... I need to get my hit in soon._

He did not care for her last remark. He drew back and shook himself out, settling for the true battle. "You should guard your tongue more closely girl. Your whore may like it loose, but no one else will."

Maeve felt herself flush with rage at that, and distinctly heard her Lady hiss behind her. "You have no idea what you're messing with," Maeve reminded him. Calling upon the reinforcement of her Lady's presence, she turned her thoughts briefly to the legend of Iron Meg, feeling her blood thrill with the power of myth. The spirit of the toughest woman in the history of Avalon flowed through her, and she smiled into the Montaigne's widening eyes as her wounds flowed seamlessly closed. "Maeve MacCodrum," she introduced herself finally, "Swordswoman and sorceress."

He settled down after a moment, at least visibly, and smiled, "So you have a little magic, do you? I've killed nobles before, girl, and I'll enjoy taking the both of you down."

"Even if you had any stones, they wouldn't be big enough to take me anywhere," Maeve countered. "But then, what Montaigne has any idea what to do with stones, eh?"

"What would you know what to do with a man, girl? Too bad you won't live long enough to learn."

Maeve just shook her head, "Men only complain when I leave. Not that you'll ever find out."

"Wouldn't be interested, child." He crouched, rapier rising, and she saw the lunge coming.

"Obviously," Maeve crouched as well, keeping here eyes on his leading leg and arm. The attack would come from there. "You're lack any equipment to _be_ interested."

He glared, and lunged, rapier whipping towards her with lightning speed. She dropped into a deeper crouch, and countered his lunge with one of her own. He did not see it coming until they were both extended, and she deliberately dropped her blade. Instead of punching through his chest, as her teacher had drummed into her, she aimed significantly lower, scoring only slightly above her target.

_He shrieks loud enough,_ she thought, drawing her blade back. He folded around the wound, dropping his rapier and main gauche, collapsing to the ground. "And now I can guarantee you don't have the equipment," she said aloud.

Again her Lady pressed in behind her, pulling her into a tighter embrace than the first. "Beautiful work, my love," she announced, "wouldn't you all agree?"

Twitching, looking past he curtain of her Lady's hair, Maeve realized that there had been a small audience for the fight. About twenty men and women, most of them looking like more dockside toughs, were standing in the alleyways, clear of the carnage, but close enough to have a good view. One man stood out, another Montaigne, who stepped forward slowly. His movements were slow and careful, and he seemed more concerned with keeping his feet clear of the mess than keeping an eye on the two women at the center of it.

Maeve glared at him, lifting her claymore again. "I'm tired, but not too tired to take down a few more," she warned.

"Oh, calm yourself, girl. You've carved quite enough of a hole in my supply of underlings," he said, still not looking at her. He stopped next to his countryman, who was still moaning and crying on the ground, writhing in pain. "My, that looks rather painful. He won't last long, I take it?"

Maeve nodded, "groin shot, at least one artery. He'll bleed out in a minute."

"Tsk, and here I was actually thinking of promoting him. Ah well, there'll be more where he came from." The newcomer turned to look her over, taking in not just Maeve, but her Lady. "I must say, I'm impressed with you, young lady. As I said, you just made quite a hole in my local organization, even if I was dismantling it. The thugs were nothing much, but Michel, he was actually quite skilled. A little coarse, and no knowledge of how to treat a lady, such as either of you, but skilled at what I paid him for. Oh, yes, and my apologies for his remarks, by the way. Most uncouth, but he was a peasant, after all."

"Apologies before you have us killed? You're a strange one."

He laughed, shaking his head, "No, you misunderstand me, Lady MacCodrum. These people are not my employees, just bystanders. No, I merely made my presence known to you in order to extend to you an offer. I could use someone of your demonstrable skill, in any number of roles. I won't even ask you to decide now." He reached into a pocket, and pulled out a folded card. "I was going to give this to Michel, since we were to travel by different routes. It has an address, in Tamis, where Michel and I were to meet in several weeks. Since he is no longer capable of such a meeting, I would like to invite you. Just ask for Jean-Louis Valroux."

"Take it," her Lady whispered, soft tinkling voice reaching no further than Maeve's ear, "we can have fun with him later, if you like."

Hesitantly, unwilling to take the note but less willing to annoy her Lady, Maeve reached out, gingerly took the folded paper, and slid it into a pocket of her vest. "I'll think about it," she offered.

The Montaigne smiled brightly, and bowed, a courtly gesture that clashed horribly with the surroundings, then turned and left. He stopped before he reached the crowd, however, and looked back over his shoudler. "Ah, fair warning, Lady MacCodrum. I have other... investors... who require the cargo on that boat. I cannot guarantee that my men will not attack while you are aboard. But if you do survive, and are interested, look me up in Tamis. Au revoir."

"Ooooh, it will be such a pleasure to watch you kill him," her Lady whispered, "the proud ones are always such fun."

After a few seconds of watching the audience disperse, somewhat surprised that no one was calling for the watch, Maeve pulled away from her Lady and turned to face her. Her Lady was tall, towering over most people, let alone Maeve, with a thin frame that struck many as frail. Her long, fine-boned arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her long face, sharp as a knife, was smiling down at Maeve, face displaying a mixture of sardonic amusement and icy desire.

Glaring up at her, Maeve repeated her earlier protest, in Avalon. "You shouldn't be here, my Lady." The Sidhe woman merely laughed, reaching out one delicately boned hand, almost as long as Maeve's forearm, and caressed her cheek. Letting the touch linger, Maeve continued, "I'm serious, My Lady. No one here has any idea who you are. They will not show you proper respect, proper deference. You heard that fool, the rest of these people will be even less polite. Worse, we are distant, from Avalon and the Sea, from Bryn Bresail."

"I am safe enough," her Lady said, still smiling, "but your concern is touching. I was beginning to think you did not want me any longer."

"I never wanted you," Maeve muttered, "you just don't listen when someone says 'no'."

"You did not mean it," her Lady replied, moving closer.

"Yes I did. But that's an old argument, one you've already won. This is a new one. You should not be here."

"I missed you, and I am safe enough, with my beautiful green-haired killer." her Lady repeated, tilting Maeve's head back and kissing her very softly.

Maeve sighed, enjoying the attention even while she tried to ignore it. Her Lady was entirely too good at avoiding arguments she might loose. She made a decision, and when her Lady pulled back, instead of resuming her argument, Maeve switched to a new one. She pulled her Lady into an embrace, enjoying the taste of cinnamon left on her lips, and said, "I would like to indulge you, my Lady, but I am contracted to defend a boat. I gave my word." Her Lady was just as fanatical about such things as Maeve. "I need to get back to it, lest something happens and leaves me foresworn."

"Liar," her Lady's reply was fortunately amused, rather than insulted, "you never have enjoyed shocking an audience. But I will let you get away with it this time, my love. Go back to your little boat. Come home to me soon, Avalon grows boring."

"A few weeks, my Lady," Maeve promised, truthfully enough, "just a few weeks."

A moment later, the comfortable embrace holding her vanished, and Maeve found herself standing alone in an alley, surrounded by dead and dying. _She's going to get both of us killed by the Queen of the Sky,_ Maeve thought to herself, looking around and shaking her head. _Why can't she just behave? Once, even? Oh, wait, because then things would be 'boring', wouldn't they?_ After cleaning and sheathing her claymore, she picked up the fallen Montaigne's rapier and main gauche, cleaning them on his cloak and cutting his scabbards free to protect the weapons.

Back down the alley she had arrived by, she found her way to the docks once more. To her surprise, the tub was still sitting at the pier, still loading cargo. Another poor fool was arguing with the captain, trying to arrange passage. Maeve just shook her head, and re-entered the bar. Her original seat was still there, though her half-finished beer was long gone, so she dropped into the same spot, and waved at the barkeep for another round. _I'll warn the captain tonight,_ she decided, watching the latest hopeful storm off the boat, waving an armored fist back at the captain. _My word requires at least that much, and I may need help getting rid of whoever tries to board us. Stupid bloody main-landers, thirty years of fighting, and that's still all they're willing to do._

Rolling that recrimination of all inhabitants of Théah's primary continent about in her mind, Maeve settled back to wait for the cargo to finish loading. She was tired of fighting, however much her Lady liked to watch her work, and just wanted to get back to open ocean and the towering highlands of home.

"Théus, I can't wait to get home," she muttered.


	2. Northern's Fury

**Highlander Honor**

By Daishi Prime

Chapter 02 – Northerner's Fury

Looking down on the down on the river-port, Vilskap had to admit, it was just as pathetic as the farmer had promised him. Shaking his head, at his predicament in being here, at his folly for not marching straight north, and at the Living Runes' for sticking him with all these troubles, he settled onto a rock atop the hill, and pulled the loaf of bread the farmer had given him out. Breaking off a piece for lunch, he took the time to study the small collection of buildings, docks and people that huddled around a curve in the River.

Admittedly, he had little to actually compare the place to. The most annoying aspect of the entire situation was that he had no idea how he had come to wash up on that farmer's beach, a few miles east of town, along the greatest river in Théah. He had no idea, really, about anything before waking up to find the old man rolling him over and slapping his face to wake him. He knew he was Vestenmanavnjar, a few personal facts except the most important, and he knew that whatever he was doing here, and that the answer to the massive question that was his identity was in the Vesten Isles. Which knowledge did not particularly help him in figuring out how to get there.

Pausing both his thinking and his eating, he looked at the livid wound on his right wrist. The farmer had not begun to have anything large enough to fit Vilskap's titanic frame, so he was still walking around without a shirt, which gave him a certain barbaric air he was debating the merits of. But that fact also left the half-healed, scabbed over gash quite obvious. He knew from the farmer's comments and his own careful finger-tip explorations that there was another across his forehead, exactly as if someone had started trying to scalp him. Only a Vesten would have done that, been that specific. Someone had tried to forever cut him off from the Living Runes, and done it recently.

Turning his gaze back down at the village, he shook his head to clear it of that depressing thought, and considered the docks. Three ships were in port that he could see, and none of them looked particularly promising. All of them were river boats, and all of them the slow, heavy style the continentals favored. Not that Vilskap was a shipwright, but any Vesten worth the name knew enough to tell the difference between a well-built sea-going raider, and a target. One looked to still be unloading, at least there was more stuff coming off than going on. The other two looked to be in various stages of loading up, one almost done and probably due to sail with cargo piled about the deck, the other still sending cargo straight through the deck and inside the hull.

"Two tubs and a wreck," he muttered, "lovely." The ships were not that bad, but it was quite obvious they would never stand up to his people's standards. But fortunately, his people did not bother sailing so far west and south of their home seas as the River, let alone sailing up it halfway to the Crescent border. "The middle one," he decided as he finished half the bread, "almost ready to sail, and probably in need of a good marine."

Hauling himself upright again, he gave his left arm a shake, re-settling the panzerhand. The action, practiced and familiar, caused him to pause and study the weapon for a minute, opening and closing the articulated metal fingers slowly. The steel extended back up his forearm, another set of articulated half-rings curling around his elbow and a few inches further. He could see the releases for the straps, hidden beneath more steel plates and chainmail, and the weapon was both well used, and felt quite familiar. The shake had been completely unconscious, yet another action so practiced and natural that he had no idea where it came from.

"Bloody fool," he snarled after a second, "wool-gathering like this's probably what got your fool head emptied in the first place."

Getting into town proved easier than it had looked. There had once been a wooden wall around it, at least judging by the ditch where the logs had been dug up. Whatever side of the War of the Cross that did it was immaterial – someone had stripped this town of its defenses, and now no one cared enough to try to control who came and who left. Vilaskap simply strolled down the hill, onto one of the unpaved streets, and made his way towards the docks.

What he saw along the way was more informative than his overview had been. Half the buildings were empty, not even boarded up, just empty. Already it was obvious there were places people were using those empty buildings for materials to repair other structures, places where entire planks had been taken out, doors, windows, all cleanly removed as weather and bandit damage would not be. The people he saw he divided into two categories: toughs and civilians. The members of the second group were of no moment, just people trying to keep themselves alive in a land ravaged by thirty years of the worst religious war Théah had ever seen. The second group concerned him more, not because they were dangerous, but because they were stupid enough to _think_ they were dangerous. Them he kept an eye on, cataloguing and remembering to be sure none of them tried to surprise him.

He found the ship easily enough, and found the captain even more easily. The scruffy little Vodacce was standing on his quarter-deck, leaning over a rail to harangue an Eisen on the dock. The Eisen was giving as good as he got, but before their shaking fists escalated to drawn pistols, the Eisen stalked off. He lasted long enough, however, for Vilskap to get aboard the ship and make his way to the wheel on the quarter-deck, leaning against it. The captain turned around and flinched back, obviously surprised and more than a little frightened.

He recovered quickly enough, scowling mightily and shouting, "Legion's Fangs! Who're you an' wha' the _Hell_'re you doin' on my deck?"

Vilskap grunted, somewhat impressed with the man's guts. He was twice the captain's size, and all muscle where the Vodacce was obviously going to seed. "I'm your new marine," he rumbled easily, "Vilskap."

"I don' need a marine! I don' take passengers, neither. Get your barb hide off my deck!"

"How many fighters you have aboard?"

The captain blinked, then glared, "None of your business!"

"'Cause I can take this ship all by my little lonesome," Vilskap said, lifting up his left hand and slowly flexing it into a fist. The metal ground together in a most intimidating sound, the more so as the resultant blunt object was almost as big as the captain's head. "You need protection, in these troubled times, captain, and I can offer you that protection."

The captain was a little paler now, but still standing his ground, "I've already go' all the passenger's I'm willing to take. And better fighters than you seem to think! Two swordsmen, already."

"Good for them," Vilskap replied, still smiling and leaning on the wheel, "where are they now? And what makes you think they can stand up to what you're going to be facing? Swordsmen are skilled, yes, but they are not invincible, and the dangers you face are experienced, aren't they? I'll make you a deal, Captain. I'll stay out of your way, I'll guard the ship, and I'll keep your crew and passengers happy. In exchange, you don't charge me for passage down river, and nobody gets hurt 'cept the pirates."

Looking him up and down, the captain was quite obviously weighing the pros and cons of refusing. On the one hand, he was the captain of this ship, and his entire crew might be able to get the giant Vesten either in the River or on the dock. On the other hand, doing so would probably result in several of his crew getting injured or killed, which would require replacing them, which would delay his departure. It would also possibly be only a temporary solution, unless one of them got lucky and killed the giant. Finally, the man snarled, "Fine, passage downriver. But for now, get the hell off my boat! We sail a' dawn, an' I don' wan' none of you aboard 'fore then!"

"Good enough," Vilskap agreed, shoving off the wheel and holding out his right hand. "I'll accept your word, captain."

The man shook his hand, quickly but solidly, then started shouting at someone below decks. Vilskap decided to make himself scarce, but not too scarce. He had an agreed upon deal for passage, but the captain would patently try to skate out of it if he could. So staying close to the dock was a good idea, but where to do that? He had no money for the tavern, even the cheap one at the end of the dock, and loitering anywhere else would be both boring and dangerous. Finally, he decided to simply wander the dock and see what he could see. It was not much of a town, but there was always hope for something interesting.

He found 'interesting' in short order, unfortunately. What he at first took to be a group of toughs harassing a dog turned out to be far worse. Fourteen or fifteen men, all of them peasants, all of them armed, were grouped in a circle, tossing a something back and forth. As Vilskap closed, his sense of foreboding grew, and realizing that the 'object' was a book made it worse. When he saw a small hand, lunging up after the airborne book, he sighed and shook his head, muttering to himself, "Soft-hearted fool, gonna get yourself killed, Vilskap."

Despite his misgivings, his step quickened. He may not have been able to remember who he was, but he did remember that he hated bullies, and was not about to stand by and let someone weaker get hurt for some thug's amusement. For a moment, he wondered where the local constable was, since this sort of disturbance really should have been dealt with by someone official. It was happening right on the dock, disturbing the unloading of one ship, and from the catcalls was rapidly descending into violence. Then he remembered that there probably was no such person any longer. The Eisenfurst for this part of the country, Sieger, was too busy trying to keep the Castillians from claiming the land promised them in the recent treaty to bother keeping order in those lands.

Watching the group shift and move as he closed, Vilskap picked out the leader, and moved to approach him from behind. The ones on the far side of the circle had just taken notice of him when he came into arms reach, and the man was just starting to look over his shoulder to see what the worried looks were about.

Vilskap knew he was intimidating, there was not a doubt in his mind. He had a height advantage of a foot or more over most men, shoulders wide enough to challenge any door, and muscles only a strong blacksmith could match. More importantly, he had the wild and dangerous reputation of the Vestenmannavnjar, which stereotype he fit perfectly: long wild hair, dirty blonde and unkempt, face hidden behind mustache and beard pulled into two long braids, the weathered skin of a north-man, and the nearly insane smile of a bearsark. Not that he was, but these fools had no way to know that. Having a massive lightning-shaped scar on his chest, and not bothering to wear a shirt to cover it, just added to the fearsomely barbaric image.

The leader had just gotten his head around, and was just starting to register the usual reaction of fear, when Vilskap reached him. Vilskap's massive left hand, wrapped in iron, clamped down on the smaller man's shoulder, and spun him half around harshly. A moment later, his right hand stopped the man's rotation by the simple expedient of grabbing the hilt of his still-sheathed broadsword. Vilskap moved in close, looking almost straight down at the thug, and asked in a growling voice, "Don't you know it's not polite to harass a lady?"

The thug started to grow a spine, and opened his mouth to speak, but Vilskap did not give him the chance. Shifting back slightly, he put his steel-wrapped fist in the man's chest, gently, then shoved him straight back, past the woman that had been trapped in the circle, causing him to stumble backwards over a chest. The move also incidentally caused the man's sword to come loose from its scabbard, settling oh so gently into Vilskap's free hand.

Lifting the blade to settle lightly on his shoulder, Vilskap glared down at the group of thugs, giving each a few seconds of eye-contact to ensure proper intimidation. The last to meet his gaze was the leader, who was by then struggling back to his feet. Vilskap let him get there, then whipped the heavy blade of his new weapon to point at one thug in particular, "I believe that book belongs to the lady. Why don't you give it back to her? I've heard that generosity lengthens one's life."

The thug in question released his grip on the tome, which the woman, who had been practically hanging off it by then, promptly reclaimed before sinking down onto the chest. She was muttering something he could not follow, flipping the pages and inspecting the book very carefully, totally ignoring the thugs still surrounding her. The man who had the book, however, used his now free hand to draw a heavy knife from his belt, which action seemed to serve as a signal for the others to draw their weapons.

Settling the sword back on his shoulder, Viskap grinned viciously at them, "do you punks really think you can hurt me?"

"Nobody gets in our way," the leader snarled, "and nobody takes my blade!"

"Bring it on, little boys, I'll wash the dock red with your blood."

The bully gang spread from surrounding the woman to surrounding Vilskap, and he chuckled, grinning maniacally at them, head swiveling slowly to check each of them in turn. Before they could lunge, however, there was a clear ring of steel, followed by a second. "Assaulting a priest of the Vaticine church is heresy," a newcomer commented, sounding almost bored, "especially if any of you scum are Vaticines yourself. Given that the lady in question does not seem too bothered, I would be willing to let you depart in peace, but between my comrade and I, none of you will survive if you choose to fight."

The commentary drew everyone's attention, except the woman, who remained muttering over the book. Standing at the entrance to a warehouse, a pair of cavalry sabers in his hands, was a young Vodacce. His black hair was short and slicked back, his skin was dusky and weathered, and his dark eyes were both steady and narrow. He wore the tight pants and tighter shirt of a swordsman, both of good but rugged quality. Only the blades looked used, well-cared for but obviously quite well used.

Having no idea who this interloper was, Vilskap decided to play along, "Ah, come on, I haven't had a good brawl in days. Why do you have to ruin my fun?"

One black eyebrow twitched upward, "because a priest would get caught in the brawl, and I cannot in good conscience allow her to come to harm. Best to let the scum slink away like the cowards they are. If you really must fight someone today, you can track them down later."

"Fine, fine, but if they aren't gone soon, I won't be able to contain myself."

The combination of two fighters, both extremely intimidating, and of an uncertain but probably superior level of skill, the thugs blatantly decided that discretion was the better part of valor. They started inching back, opening the space and sheathing their weapons, muttering among themselves. Only the leader remained, glaring back and forth for a moment, before holding his hand out to Vilskap. "Gimme back my blade."

It was no masterwork blade, just a solid reliable broadsword, obviously a lowly soldier's weapon produced for the War of the Cross, but it was the only sword Vilskap currently had, and something told him he would have need and use for it. "No."

"Damn you, thief, that's my sword!"

The Vodacce reached the thug's side, his own weapons now sheathed. He looked at the sword now resting on Vilskap's shoulder, then at the thug. "He took that sword from you?"

"Yes!"

"Then I'd suggest you give him the scabbard. He can't very well go wandering around town with a naked blade, and you obviously no longer need the scabbard on your hip."

For a second, the man looked like he was going to argue. Then he looked around, realized he was completely alone, and snarled a curse. He wrenched the scabbard off, belt and all, and threw it on the ground, before storming off. The two fighters watched him go, then turned to consider each other for a few minutes, silent contemplation of former ally turned potential enemy.

Finally, the Vodacce bowed slightly, "My thanks, warrior, for your intervention. Dealing with all of them without allowing her to come to harm would have been difficult."

Vilskap laughed, clapping the man once on his shoulder. The 'friendly' gesture sent him stumbling, "No problem, man, just don't like seeing the weak harass the defenseless. Name's Vilskap."

"Léon Scaromene," the Vodacce replied, pulling his shirt back to rights.

"Oh, thank Théus the Beneficient and Enlightened." The heartfelt outburst surprised the two of them, and they looked over to find the woman they had 'rescued' smiling brightly as she clutched the book to her chest. At their looks, one hand caressing the leather cover, she explained with a smile, "It wasn't damaged at all. It's still in perfect condition. Maralan's Treatise on Hydraulics, in the original Théan, with a Numan-era printing date. Priceless."

The worshipful tone in her voice was more appropriate, in Vilskap's opinion, to visions of the Living Runes, not a leather-wrapped sheaf of papers, and he realized she was probably not right in the head. "Ah, are you all right, miss?"

She had a semi-dreamy look on her face, "Oh, I'm fine. They didn't hurt my book. Do you realize how rare this is? I've only ever seen fragments, or translations, never the original."

As Vilskap shook his head, Léon took over asking questions, "Madam, are you here alone?"

She blinked at him, then looked around in dawning confusion. "Now that you mention it, no, I shouldn't be. But I seem to have been misplaced by my bodyguard, sometime in the last couple of days. It's no matter, I'm merely traveling back to my father's lands in Rancho Orduño, escorting some ancient texts rescued from a monastery abandoned during the war. I can arrange passage on one of these ships, once I get around to it."

Vilskap and Léon shared a look, and despite having just met, both of them realized the same thing, saying at the same time, "She won't last a day on her own."

"I've got a post on a boat down-river," Vilskap said, "Captain'll let her aboard, though I'll have to threaten him again, I think."

Léon quirked an eyebrow again, "Leaves at dawn?"

"Yeah."

"The _Angelina's Gold_. My uncle's boat. Let me talk to him, he won't dare refuse and we won't have to threaten anyone." He turned back to the woman, and bowed, introducing himself again.

She actually noticed this time, and returned his gesture, including some sort of benediction Vilskap did not recognize before introducing herself, "Salorina Aldana de Orduño." Then she looked at him, and the dark brown eyes sharpened. Not being one for effete gestures, Vilskap settled for nodding and introducing himself. To which she immediately asked, in an oddly lilting form of his own native tongue, "You are skjaeren, yes? A user of the Runes? Would you be willing to talk to me about that? I have any number of questions, but have never had opportunity to talk to an actual skjaeren." Taken aback, Vilskap could only stare at her. How in the Wurm's Name had she figured that out just from looking at him? "It's obvious. You have a rune carved in your chest, and it's obvious someone tried to scalp you at some point. I talked to a Vendel once, said the only way to really stop a Skjaeren without killing him was to scalp him and remove a hand. I'm not planning to try that, mind you, but it marks you as a skjaeren, yes? Then there's your name, it's one of the Laerdom Runes, the one on your chest, isn't it?"

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Vilskap nodded, replying in the same tongue, "Aye, lass, I'm a skjaeren, but I'm afraid I'm not the person to talk to about Laerdom sorcery. You're no Vestenmannavnjar, and I won't share that power with just anyone. What say we get you to a boat, and make sure we're all safe before we start this argument though."

Getting her aboard the boat proved simple enough. Vilskap carried the chest, Léon led the way, and Salorina kept reading her book. Vilskap did not much care for looking like a mere proter, but he had to admit that neither of the other two would have been able to lift the locked chest, and Salorina made it abundantly clear that she would not leave it behind. Once at the boat, Léon pulled the captain aside, spoke to him very briefly, very sternly, then waved Salorina and Vilskap aboard.

By the time Salorina was safely ensconced with her chest in the captain's hastily vacated cabin, Vilskap was back on deck, and debating how much to tell the woman. Something told him she would not be easily dissuaded from pestering him about Laerdom, but he was going to have to think of something. Especially after screwing up and admitting he was. But how she had recognized him as one at a glance, and how she had known the signs of an attempted punishment ritual was beyond him.

He was distracted by Léon's return to the deck. The young Vodacce came out, looked around for a moment, then sauntered over to join Vilskap at the dock-side rail. "Thank you again for your assistance, Vilskap," he said, leaning back against the wood, hands on the rail near his swords, "and thank also for not actually killing anyone. Not that I object to it, mind you, but killings tend to stick in people's minds, and I'd rather nobody remembers me or Lady Orduño being in this miserable excuse for a town."

Vilskap nodded, but instead of answering, asked, "What do you make of this, coming down the dock?" A jerk of his chin indicated the subject of his attention, and Léon turned slightly to look as well.

She was a tiny little thing, thin and child-like in overall appearance, but only to first impression. Even from the side of the boat and the length of the dock, it was plainly obvious that the woman was dangerous. The most obvious sign was the oddly structured claymore slung over her back, glittering beautifully against the dingy town, finely built and almost fragile looking. Her clothes were also not those of a child, but, like Léon's, those of a swordswoman – solid boots, short tartan skirt, a tight shirt covered by a tight vest, and a wide-brimmed hat with the right side pinned up to clear the sword. As she marched up the gangplank, Vilskap's interest sharpened. Her face was sharply beautiful, porcelin pale skin over a bone structure almost too fine to be believed, framed by long sea-green hair. The fact that her eyes were a brilliant gold color, and never wavered from him, convinced him that, whatever else she was, 'human' did not enter into it.

She stopped a few yards away, looking over the towering Vesten and the Vodacce beside him. "You boys sailing on this tub tomorrow?"

Vilskap grunted, "Might want to be careful, girl, insulting his uncle's boat."

She smiled slightly, showing frighteningly perfect white teeth, and shook her head, "couldn't care less. This thing's a tub, and should be stripped down. But it's the next boat out of here."

"If you need to book passage," Léon told her, "I'm afraid you'll need another ship. My uncle does not take passengers without a very good reason."

She looked at Léon, and the smile turned into a vicious grin. "I've already got passage. Legion-damned fool thinks he can get into my pants. He won't, but it'll be entertaining to prove him wrong. I take it both of you are sailing aboard as well? With the pretty Castillian who's hiding below-decks?"

"She's not hiding," Léon answered repressively, "and yes, we are sailing aboard this ship. Who are you to ask?"

"Maeve MacCodrum, Highland swordswoman," she replied, sketching an imitation of a bow, "and we have a problem, above and beyond the usual River-pirates. A Montaigne's after part of this ship's cargo. I managed to interrupt his initial plan, something about a powder barrel and longboats tomorrow night. But I'm sure he's got another plan, more thugs, and I'm not interested in being the only one prepared for him."

"Any more word on his plans?"

Maeve shook her head. "Sorry. I pretty thoroughly slaughtered what I thought were the wreckers. This guy showed up afterwards, and I was too busy getting my Lady to go home to run him down. Priorities, I'm afraid."

Léon gave her a searching look, "Your 'Lady'? Where is she now?"

"Never you mind," Maeve told him in a warning tone of voice, "she's no concern of yours, and you'd best hope you never meet her. Focus on the problem at hand – a Montaigne who's willing to turn pirate and wrecker to get at a cargo we're carrying."

"Good thing I scared my way aboard," Vilskap muttered, "sounds like it'll be a fun ride down-river." Scanning the dock, he contemplated what Maeve had told him, and whether or not he could trust her. Looking back down, he decided to test that through the simplest expedient possible, "You aren't human, girl. I can tell by looking at you, you're too fey to be real. Tell me what you are, and I'll believe you know what you're talking about with this Montaigne."

She glared at him for a few moments, then shrugged, "Fine, Vesten. I'm a MacCodrum. Our clan was founded through a union with a Sidhe woman, and I inherited a large dose of her blood. It's a little annoying at times, since people insist on treating me like a child, but it has its compensations. Happy?"

Vilskap glared harder at her for that. He knew something of the Sidhe, all Vesten did just from proximity to the Highlands and Avalon, alien beings that were reputed to be even stronger than the Living Runes, on an individual basis. Unkillable immortals with vast power behind them. Now that she had pointed it out, he could see the signs of myth – the too-refined features, the odd coloring, the perfect smoothness in her every motion. "No," he said after a moment, "but at least you're honest. Léon, what do you know about other fighters on this voyage? Is it just the three of us, or will there be others?"

"There's one other," Léon told him, "at least, one worth mentioning. Don't know where he is right this moment, but I do know he's an Eisen, veteran of some sort but no swordsman. Quick with his hands. No specifics on his combat skills, except they were good enough to scare my uncle."

"Four against an unknown number. Can the crew be relied on to keep watch?"

"Probably," Léon agreed after a moment's thought. "They're peasant sailors, but not stupid. Most of them have been sailing on the River for years, and no merchant sailor wants any pirates aboard. They'll fight if we get attacked, but probably not very well."

"So only one of us needs to be on watch at a time," Maeve decided, "sailor or not, I'd feel better if an actual warrior was keeping an eye on things."

"Agreed," Vilskap muttered, "positions for us if someone does attack? I'll take the bow, I don't need as much room as your swords will, and can make some more if I have to."

"I'll take mid-ships," Léon offered, "it'll give me all the room I need, just don't get too close once I get started."

"I'll take the rigging," Maeve said, grinning again. "I can move up there fairly well, and it'll let me reinforce whoever needs help."

"So the unknown goes on the quarter deck," Vilskap decided, "hope he likes taking tail post."

"Doesn't matter," Léon said, "he wasn't here for the planning, he can complain later. For now, let's move this out of the way and get down to some details."

Vilskap let the other two preceed him, and mentally shook his head again. _Fool boy, your soft-hearted, trusting ways are going to get you killed._


	3. Tavern Brawl

**Highlander Honor**

By Daishi Prime

Chapter 03 – Tavern Brawl

Author's note: lyrics from The Gang's All Here, by the DropKick Murphys, with one modification to fit the setting.

------------------------------

Natalia suppressed a sigh as she settled onto the stool at the bar, feeling her feet throb slightly as she took her weight off them. _I should be used to this by now,_ she thought, reaching up to run a hand through her short blonde hair, shaking the heat out of it. "Ale, watered down," she demanded, and the barkeep moved relatively quickly to fill her order. He'd been slow once, when she first started singing here, and the resultant tirade had drained custom from the tavern in a flash, and money from the owner's pockets. Since Natalia's singing was the only real attraction the place had at the moment, the owner had taken his monetary loss out on his regular employee rather than risk having her move to another tavern and steal his custom. The result of that was that, even more than a week later, Natalia got her ale relatively quickly.

Taking it, she leaned back into the corner of the bar and wall, and looked over the crowd. It was larger than it had been when she first approached the owner, proof that she was keeping up her end of the bargain, and the ale in hand was proof that he was keeping up his. The food wasn't great, but she had not eaten well since she left home. _Better bad food and freedom than home,_ she reminded herself, as the ale, harsh even when watered down, hit.

Scanning over the assembled dockworkers, merchants and artisans who populated the open area of the inn proper, she noted several anomalies. First, the man at the far end of the bar was doing a remarkably good job of watching everyone, and she thought that was probably the first mug of ale he had obtained on arriving – over an hour previously. Second, the number of armed street-toughs was higher than normal, though that could just be a response to her presence – she was no royal bard, but she knew her singing was good, even if the Avalon tunes she was currently performing were more than a little out of place in southern Eisen.

Natalia almost missed the third interesting person of the evening. A young woman, Castillian from her coloring, about Natalia's own age but more finely built, was heading up stairs, to the private rooms the owner rented out. Not necessarily remarkable in and of itself, the fact that she was alone, obviously not a Jenny, and doing a piss-poor job of being 'stealthy', marked her out as trouble. She moved smoothly enough, for a sailor on land, and Natalia had no doubt she could do some truly impressive things on a ship. But here, she was simply out of her element and obvious about it.

Sighing, Natalia shook her head. _Stupid girl's going to get her head caved in, whoever she's trying to spy on._ Several individuals who passed for interesting in this midden-heap of a town were up there, staying in the best inn for miles. Natalia had no idea who any of them were, but all of them had taken guards up with them, and left more down below. Continuing to observe the crowd, Natalia asked herself, _Question is, how violent is the response likely to be? If it's quiet, no one will notice, I can get out of here at midnight as usual and not come back. But if it gets messy..._ those walls upstairs were none too thick, and any ruckus at all would be noticed down here, and all too easily spill over into the crowd. Realizing that, Natalia began very carefully noting the locations of every armed person in the inn, and making sure she had a safe spot to hide behind the bar when things exploded.

_Why can't I just find a place and stop? It's not like anyone from home will be looking for me in a place like this._ She was tired of running, even if she had only been doing it for a year. All she wanted to do was settle down someplace and live a quiet life with her music and her books, maybe a smart man to spend some time with once in a while.

_You can't stop running because your family won't stop looking,_ her conscience reminded her, _and anyone caught with you will likely pay the final price for that._

Putting away her worries, she focused on finishing her drink. Her deal was five minutes out of every hour undisturbed to rest her voice, with one free drink during that break and a single meal before closing. If there was a chance of a fight breaking out, she had to use all of that time planning her escape. Fighting was the one thing she was not interested in doing, no matter how well her knife would serve her in these close quarters.

------------------------------

Shifting to bring a little more of the common area into his view, Manferd Stauffenberg turned his attention from the songstress to the crowd as she moved towards the bar for her latest break. She was a pretty young woman, dark and fine-boned, with a beautiful voice and the trained grace of a dancer. But something about her just screamed 'spy' to him, and he was here on business anyhow.

Clustered in amongst the crowd, he took note of the toughs and bully-boys, and the handful of quieter, less blatant figures who were patently the more dangerous ones in the room. None of them were his business, however, not directly. A few were hired thugs for the man he had followed in here, but that was all they were – hired muscle. The quiet ones held his attention, as they were the most likely to be involved.

A short while earlier, following up on the latest individual to badger her way into a berth aboard the _Angelina's Gold_, he had witnessed a rather spectacular battle. The fact that it had been utterly one-sided impressed him, given that he had expected to be the one coming to the girl's rescue, but the subsequent outcome had been an even bigger surprise. Watching one of the mythical Sidhe of Avalon simply appear, then watching her walk around the duelists like they were statues in a garden, that had been one of the most strangely awe-inspiring things he had ever seen, even if it did mark the Highland girl out as a threat.

What had brought him from monitoring the ship to this tavern was the Montaigne who offered her employment. Manfred had no idea who the foreigner was, but the man was obviously wealthy and powerful, given that the town's mayor had come running to the tavern at his summons. The Highland girl had proven that however dangerous she was, she would protect the boat, so he let her do that while he followed up with the Montaigne. The man in question had strolled back here, gone directly to his room on the second floor, and sent a steady stream of underlings and supplicants coming and going, including said mayor.

His slow steady scan of the room caught sight of someone who truly did not belong here. She was tanned, with dark black hair and a wiry build, roughly dressed in sailor's pants and vest, bare-foot but armed a pistol on each hip and a wickedly curved knife in the small of her back. He was slightly puzzled by the long work-gloves she was wearing, but the pistols explained those – poor quality pistols were known to shoot burning powder backwards, as well as forwards, even when they did not truly backfire. The girl moved with the rolling gait of a sailor, and the attempted stealth of an utter amateur, skirting up the stairs and out of sight too quickly to be unnoticed, but not quick enough to surprise anyone already up there.

_Théus preserve, I hope this doesn't blow up into another fight,_ he thought, turning back to his beer and to checking his own, more discreetly placed, array of knives. _I haven't even started my mission yet, and people are already getting killed over this thing._

------------------------------

Rosetta slid up the stairs, as quietly as she could, mentally cursing the stubborn immobility of the entire building, and of land in general. She hated being on land, hated not having a ship under her feet, and most especially hated being away from her own beloved _Fire's Rose_. But family came first, and her family needed a certain letter from a certain man who was supposedly residing in this pathetic excuse for an inn. Which, given her previous run-ins with this particular individual, had required her to leave her precious ship several days down-river, lest he recognize it, or her, and flee.

_Ah, if my cousins could see me now,_ she thought with some amusement, _skulking through a dirty dockside tavern in bare feet and peasant clothes. Aunt Marisol would faint dead away. Gah, none of them have seen me since I left school, they probably wouldn't believe it even was me._

The stairs traveled up the back wall of the inn, and let out onto a small landing that turned into a hallway reaching to the front of the building. As she reached the top of the stairs and glanced around into the hallway, and saw two men sitting in chairs outside two of the doors. They were each sitting across the hall from a door, and close enough together to be talking. Over their voices, she could vaguely make out another more muffled conversation.

_Right, too many to wreck quietly, guess I'll have to try to do this one subtle. Get the letter to his desk, then get somewhere private for a minute while he's out of the room…_

She straightened up, and strolled out into the hallway, relaxed, confidant, and obvious. The two guards in the hall turned their attention to her almost immediately, one settling a hand on a knife as he turned to look at her, the other drawing a pistol, then letting it dangle beside his chair. Rosetta noted their weapons, checked only briefly, then continued walking towards them.

"Who are you?" Knife demanded, rising out of his chair and moving to block the hallway.

"Ho there, big boy, calm down," Rosetta said, smiling widely at him. "I'm just a sailor, here to drop off a message for someone."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, "What message? Who sent you?"

"Dunno," she said, shrugging to indicate her total indifference, "passenger on my ship, dropped 'im off in the last port, paid me a guilder to deliver a note here to a 'Montaigne gentleman' he was certain would be staying here tonight. Well, he said, 'the best tavern in town', and this technically qualifies, so, here I am," she reached beneath her vest and pulled out a folded up letter, "and here it is. So, can one of you boys tell me if there's a Montaigne up here somewhere? Your fellow below at the hatch said there was."

After glaring at her for another few seconds, Knife stepped to one side and looked questioningly at Pistol. Slightly smaller than his compatriot, Pistol looked Rosetta over for a moment, then held out his hand. "Lemme see."

She stepped up next to Knife and handed over the letter, still smiling comfortably. _I'm just the messenger, I have no idea who's getting the letter or what it contains,_ she kept repeating to herself, _I'm just the messenger._ Pistol looked it over for a moment, studying the seal pressed into the wax, then, stepped over to the door he had been guarding and knocked twice. At a shouted command from within, he went inside, closing the door behind him.

"Well, I've done what I was paid for," she said turning to head back down the stairs.

Knife didn't like that, "Hey, wait a second you..."

Rosetta was out of his reach before he reacted, and the need to watch over his own door held him just long enough for her to reach the stairs. "I'll be below having an ale if his boss wants anything." Then she was down the stairs quick, and weaving her way through the crowd. Thinking quickly, she asked herself, _Bolt, or ale? If I run, he'll be gone just as fast, and he'll probably burn my letter. If I stay, he'll send a bully-boy down, and I'll risk getting slammed around._ She paused halfway between the stairs and the door, and swung right, siddling up the bar. _Better to be sure it's up there,_ she decided.

With a few moments to herself, she took the chance to look over the common room and plan how she would use the various people there to affect her escape. There were a number of toughs sitting around, enjoying the singing of the Avalon woman currently holding forth from a table in the center of the room. A few more looked interesting, like they would probably know which end of a gun was dangerous, but most of the people here looked like this mud-hole port's version of 'well-to-do'.

Stretching her neck, checking her pistols as unobtrusively as she could, she closed her eyes and listened, letting the Avaloner's next song wash over her.

_Well Legion's nippin' at y'r heels,_

_an' this time it's for real_

_A lon'ly hunga starts ta gnaw_

_as you wish away the pain_

_of another desperate dead-end day_

_forever filled wi' sadness_

_to forget about the pain_

_Ya take y'r bottle, drink y'r grain_

_Singin' hail, hail th' gangs all here_

_Leave y'r worries at th' door..._

A hand clamped down on her shoulder, and spun her roughly around, and Rosetta sighed as she slammed back against the bar. Standing behind her was Pistol, frowning mightily as if that would scare her. Standing behind him, she could see the Montaigne she had come to find. "Ah, Tuomas Praisse du Rachetisse," she said as innocently as her poor acting skills could manage, "fancy meeting a fop like you here."

He glared at her, and tapped his man's shoulder. Pistol moved sideways, and Tuomas stepped up in front of her. "You should be more careful, Rosetta Allina Catalina Gallegos de Sandoval. This place is hardly proper for a lady of your caliber. Some uncouth local might mistakenly knife you for you shoes." He glanced down briefly and sneered disdainfully, "or has someone already relieved you of them?"

------------------------------

Natalia almost fell off the table when the girl came strolling back down stairs. The Strands appeared of their own volition, a web of colors and chaos, with a massive knot of Swords about the girl. The shock of it, the surprise, caused her to stumble, but she managed to pass it off as someone's tankard tripping her. The Strands never appeared on their own any longer, they only came when she called them, but now there they were, frighteningly strong. Surreptitiously, suppressing the shiver as one Strand, then another, twirled from the girl to her, she checked the knives hidden beneath her clothes. Watching other strands settle amongst the crowd, some tenuous, some not so tenuous, she both realized she was not getting out of here unscathed tonight, and came up with her next song. _Tonight's going to get interesting._

Watching the play of Strands, as three men came stomping down the stairs behind the Castillian girl, Natalia began making her way towards the center of the room. There was no way she was going to try to directly influence Fate tonight, it was too dangerous given these hostile and unpredictable circumstances, without a safe place to retreat to. But she could flow with the Strands, take their warning and try to anticipate the best possible result. So when the lead thug grabbed the girl and roughly spun her against the bar, Natalia was half way across the room hanging off the central support post, next to a passed-out drunk the giant guarding the door had yet to remove.

A twitch of her foot, a particularly boisterous dance move to make her teachers faint in scandalous shame, and a half-full tankard of ale was airborne, pulling Swords strands in its wake like a fishing net caught on a galleon.

------------------------------

Manfred could see the entire set up, every step of the play, and entertained a brief thought that the two girls knew each other, had planned this. The Montaigne he was following came down stairs seconds behind the Castillian girl, but before he was even visible, the Avaloner was opening the angle between her and the bar. He saw her spin around the column, saw the Montaigne's local guard spin the Castillian around, and slumped slightly in disbelief as the songstress 'accidentally' lobbed a tankard at _his_ target.

_Théus be merciful to young and foolish women,_ he thought. The tavern was crowded, the people were all armed, and the presence of at least two paranoid factions upstairs made that flying tankard as deadly as a grenade. Fortunately, he had been expecting something along these lines, and was well placed. Bar to his right, wall behind him, exit to his left over a few patrons, and all the primary participants right in front of him.

Watching the tankard begin its downward fall on a still-unsuspecting target, predicting its subsequent trajectory, he muttered, "Long night indeed."

------------------------------

Rosetta was surprised Tuomas knew her full name, she thought he had only gotten her first name from their last encounter. She was about to make a snappy reply when she saw the motion out of the corner of her vision, a flick of sight showing her the airborne tankard. So instead, she just smiled, reaching out to 'straighten' his coat, oh so incidentally putting him more directly in line with the tankard, and shook her head, "Tuomas, you pretty, pretty fool. You should know better than to take on a sailor in a tavern. We've always got friends."

The tankard landed at that moment, and the initial result was both more and less than Rosetta could have hoped for. On the good side, it landed bottom first, then momentum rolled it right over, dumping the contents all over the back of Tuomas' expensive coat, not to mention his precisely coiffed hair. Insulting as that was, it was barely enough to cause the Montaigne nobleman to turn and sneer in the direction it came from. On the lesser side, it did not inflict enough damage to do more than annoy the man.

But while he was turning, the tankard was rebounding, its energy redirected. Rosetta crouched, stepping sideways to position herself in the slightly more open space between Tuomas, Pistol and the bar. Tuomas was half way through his turn when the tankard hit its next victim, bouncing off the bald head of a rather large individual. That was bad, but the fact that surprise caused the man to flinch face-first into his own tankard sealed the following course of events in stone.

The man in question lunged to his feet, front and back covered in ale, a vicious snarl on his face as he spun to find where the attack had come from. His action shoved the bench he was sitting on away from the table violently, sending a chain-reaction of disturbance through the other patrons, though none faired as poorly as he did. He paused only for a moment, just long enough to spot Tuomas half turned towards him, then swung wildly with one ham-like fist.

Rosetta did not wait to see how well he fared, but matched his lunge with one of her own. She shoved off the bar with one foot, right into Pistol's gut. The impact barely moved the larger man, though it did cause him to grunt, and he tried to grab her. While he was doing that, however, she grabbed the pistol stuck through his belt at the hip, wrenched it to point straight down and as 'in' as possible, and pulled the trigger.

She would later admit that she was surprised the gun went off, given the angle it was at and the apparent quality of its user. But he had seated the powder and ball properly, so they remained tightly rammed into the firing chamber, and after a gratifying snap and hiss, the weapon discharged with a thunderous report.

Tavern fights throughout Théah had many rules, albeit unwritten. They varied slightly from place to place, from Innish fighting circles where single warriors faced off, to Vodacce gang-fights to Ussuran wrestling matches, many variations on a rough theme. One of the most pervasive was also one of the easiest to break – no weapons. A tavern fight was supposed to be a physical contest, wits and speed and strength, not a thing of blades and guns. So when Rosetta set off that one pistol, she instantly turned the incipient match between Tuomas and his new enamored from a simple pugilist match, into a deadly free-for-all. People who had been making room to avoid involvement, or preparing to place their wagers, were suddenly drawing knives and pistols of their own, looking for the threat and making sure it was not aimed at them. But men who hold weapons looking for threats will always find them, especially when surrounded by other men doing the same, a fact Rosetta counted on.

As Pistol fell against the bar, stunned and crippled by his own weapon, she wrenched the empty weapon out of his belt, then rolled over the bar herself. She landed in front of the bar-keep, who was diving for cover himself, just in time to hear the next pistol shot of the night, quickly followed by several more, along with the screams and shouts of a _very_ general melee. The barkeep, for his part, simply slid backwards and spread his hands. Behind him, she could see a small trap-door to the inn's cellar. _No need to get more people than necessary killed,_ she thought, pointing to the trap-door, and made a shooing gesture.

The barkeep acknowledged her unspoken order in equal silence, crawling backwards, opening the door just enough to slide beneath it, then pulling it closed. That left her alone behind the bar, which was just how she wanted things at the moment. She had not felt the letter on Tuomas when she checked his coat, so it had to still be up stairs. "Here's hoping it's on his desk," she muttered, pulling off the long work-gloves.

------------------------------

Manfred tried to avoid the fight, he really did. Pushing himself back into his corner, he swung no punches, threw no tankards, and tried not to look at anyone. He was here for information, not combat, and tavern brawls were notoriously easy to die in. Worse, he lost sight of the Montaigne almost immediately, which removed any need for him to be there at all. Still, he was present, he was not fleeing, and half the people here were drunk, violent, or both. It did not take long for someone to stagger into him, swinging wildly.

Ducking beneath the punch, Manfred reached out and wrapped an arm around the man's shoulder, then turned sharply. The combined shove and his own momentum slammed the drunk into the bar, from which he ricocheted back out into the general melee. His motion created a cleared spot, which drew the attention of a pair of rather rough looking boys with more knives than hair. A glance around showed Manfred that, close to the door though he may have been, reaching it would be almost impossible without having to kill anyone, and the two now moving in on him were likely to pursue. So he leapt up slightly, just enough to gain a seat on the bar, and rolled over it.

He landed hard, dropping to get his head below the bar, and found himself face to face with the Castillian woman. She was staring at him in shock, and more than a little fear, but what really got his attention was her arms – specifically, the fact that one of them was buried to a point halfway between her elbow and shoulder in a red-bordered hole in nothing the size of a dinner plate, and the other was covered in what looked like blood, holding open the circle.

For a moment, he felt a snarling rage swell, and wanted nothing more than to kill the girl immediately. He knew instantly that she started this bar fight as nothing more than cover for her foul sorcery. But practicality won out, as always. He had a mission, and murders along the way, even the murder of a sorceress, would make that mission more difficult. "Finish up and get the hell out," he snarled.

A shadow passed overhead, and he looked up in time to see a knife coming down at him. He batted it aside, reaching up with his other arm to try and stop the attacker from coming over the bar completely. He was mostly successful, his lower, crouched position giving him better leverage than the man sprawled half over the bar. But keeping the man there, and keeping his knife away, took most of Manfred's concentration.

The two of them twisted and wrestled, until Manfred came up with a bright idea. With one hand on the man's wrist, and the other twisted in his collar, Manfred heaved straight forward, pulling the man over the bar and flipping him to land hard on his back, just missing the girl. The blow stunned the brute long enough for Manfred to recover, and caused the brute to loose his knife. A few seconds, and several punches later, and the man was out cold.

A flash of motion caught his eye, and Manfred looked up just in time for the girl to shove a pistol past his ear and fire it. Flinching back from the explosion, he looked back over his shoulder, in time to see his wrestling partner's companion slump onto the bar, shot through the chest.

"Come on," the girl said, hooking a finger in his shirt and pulling slightly despite the heavy pistol she still held. Her other hand held one of the tavern's lanterns, and tucked into her belt was a stack of letters. "Over the bar and head for the door, I'll buy us some time."

"I've been trying to do that since you started this," Manfred snarled, heaving himself upright and over the bar, before drawing both his knives.

"Whine, whine," she muttered back, hopping up on the bar. She exchanged the pistol she was holding for a third, cocked it, and took careful aim at one of the kegs halfway down the bar. "I'd suggest running about now, people are about to panic."

_Damn all Legion-worshipping sorcerers,_ he thought, lining up on the door, and charging for it. This was not Manfred's style of fight. He could manage well enough in a knife fight, especially if given enough time to don the two panzerhands currently cased in the small of his back. In general, he much preferred a dark alley and an un-aware target to this sort of generalized tumult. But he was Eisen, a warrior, and absolutely certain he did not want to wait around to see what she was going to do.

He started working his way through the crowd by the simple expedient of slamming the pommels of his knives into whoever was unfortunate enough to get in front of him. He tried not to knock anyone out, or kill anyone, but he was forced, given the tight confines and chaos, to use the blades more often than he would have preferred. A few moments after he started, he heard the girl's third pistol go off, followed very quickly by a thunderous rush of noise and heat.

Some intelligent individual shrieked, "Fire! Fire in the ale! Everybody out, now!"

He reached the door just ahead of the rush, and barreled out into the street. Pausing was a bad idea, with that mass of people behind him, so he just kept running, right across the street and up against the warehouse facing the tavern. Turning around, he took a moment to study the situation. People were streaming out of the door of the tavern, and a shift in lighting to the rear of the tavern told him someone had opened a rear door as well. To his surprise, despite being able to see the flickering flames through one window, the patrons moved more calmly than he had expected. They moved fast, and the press at the doors was still bad, but the short fight seemed to have taken most of their energy, and the panicked mob he expected did not materialize.

"Move quickly, Eisen," a soft voice whispered, "She leaves by the back way, and if the Montaigne gets hold of her before you do, your mission will fail."

Manfred stiffened at the unexpected voice, turning to glare down at the small woman beside him. She had thrown a cloak on, and had the hood up, but the blonde curls and size of her told him exactly who she was. "What do you know or care, songstress?"

She giggled, a high-pitched almost panicked sound. When she spoke, her voice had a sing-song quality, "Silly little Eisen, standing in a street. Thinks he knows, is in control, when Theus has him, by the throat." She paused and her voice returned to normal, "She will leave by the back way, you must make sure the Montaigne does not get her. I will meet you at the ship."

She vanished into the darkness of an alley before he could grab her, and he snarled in frustration. Whoever she was, though, he could not risk her being right. So he forced his way back through the crowd, that was now starting to get organized under a couple of bright boys into a fire brigade, then down the alley between the tavern and its neighboring building. It was dark, stank worse than the tavern had, and he was uncertain of a few of the things he stepped on, but when he burst out of the alley, he found the Montaigne standing there, with two bully-boys on hand and a sword in hand.

Manfred was tempted to just remove him, but he had to be sure the girl was going to be coming out here, so he put the knives away and began strapping on his panzerhands. Sure enough, almost a minute later, the angled doors leading into the cellar slammed open. The barkeep stumbled out, coughing heavily, and stumbled away. The Montaigne let him go, and was rewarded a moment later when the girl popped up, neither breathing hard nor apparently burned by the fires she had started.

The Montaigne was on her before she could get her bearings after exiting from the fire-lit cellar into the darkness behind the inn. He slammed the wire-basket guard of his rapier into her jaw, and the girl stumbled, falling to the ground, but still holding onto a reversed pistol. "I'm tired of suffering your interference, Castillian," the Montaigne snarled as his bully-boys piled onto her. A moment later, they were upright, holding her tight between them. "And I will no longer have to. I don't know what you hoped to accomplish tonight, but you have at last given me all the excuse I need to do away with you. So sad, the poor little rich girl, had no idea what such a rough and violent place she was going in to. I'll have to express my deepest condolences to your mother, of course."

Manfred cursed himself for a fool, as he finished securing the last of the straps on his arm, then announced his presence in the most intimidating manner he could think of.

------------------------------

She had thought getting the barkeep out, and exiting by the cellar, would let her escape notice, but Tuomas was still too damn lucky for her own good. The blow to the side of her face disoriented Rosetta badly, and by the time she could gather her wits again, two men were holding her literally off the ground, by painfully tight grips on her arms and hair. Tuomas brought his rapier up, setting the point against her heart, and she started struggling harder. She reached for the fire, but it was too far and too small to respond in time. She saw the blade going back, and for a moment thought she could see death.

The tip paused, however, when a rumbling voice sounded out of the darkness behind her. It took her a moment to realize that the strange, foreign-sounding syllables were Théan, the ancient tongue of the Numan Empire now spoken only by scholars and priests. Tuomas looked over her shoulder in annoyed surprise, which caused Rosetta to listen more closely, twisting her head around as far as she could to try and see behind her. She felt a shock of fear roll through her as she recognized exactly what that deep voice was reciting, in perfect Vaticine form, the Prayer of Last Rights.

The figure that stepped out of the dark alley was unrecognizable to her, and as the flickering light of the fire leaked out a window to cast insane shadows over his face, she felt a moment of utter terror that Legion himself had finally come for her. Then one metal clad fist slammed into the head on her left, and she suddenly found herself spinning free. She did not manage to take advantage of the initial surprise, merely bouncing off the man still holding her, but he still let her go, turning to face the new threat.

Rosetta landed and let herself fall backwards, hands scrabbling. She came up a second later with the pistol she had dropped and, without getting up, put her whole shoulder behind a swing that ended with the butt of the gun crashing into the man's knee. He yelled in pain, and dropped right next to her, hands on his knee. She rolled onto her knees and brought the gun down again, this time on his head, sending him into a different world for a while.

When she looked up again, the apparition that had come to her rescue was beating Tuomas rather savagely. The Montaigne nobleman had apparently made one attack with his rapier, then had it caught in one metal-clad fist. The matching fist proceeded to pummel him rather viciously until the Montiagne managed to let go of his sword and fall down, unconscious and bleeding.

Shoving herself upright again, Rosetta grabbed her second and third pistols off the ground and shoved them in her pockets. While she did that, she said, "Thanks for the assist, stranger, I owe you one."

"You owe me several, sorceress," the apparition rumbled back.

Rosetta froze, staring at him, then slowly brought two of her pistols back out, reversed and ready, "Don't know what you're talking about, stranger."

He turned from looking at Tuomas to glare down at her, and she finally got a good look at his face. It was the same Eisen who had come over the bar and seen her stealing Tuomas' mail. "I gave you the opening you used to get out of there, Porté-mage. You owe me. Now follow me. We both need to get out of here, and I have a means available. In return, you tell me exactly what your interest in this scum is." The kick he gave Tuomas indicated the subject of his insult.

Rosetta debated for a few seconds. She hated anyone knowing about her sorcery, and the fact that this complete stranger knew was bad. But even worse, he was right. She had to get out of town, and fast. Whether he lived or died Tuomas would warn everyone who's letters she had stolen, down to the last man, and that meant her target would know she was one step closer. It also meant that any of those people in this town, and she knew there had to be some, would be trying to kill her almost immediately to protect the contents of their notes to the Montaigne, and to get their hands on the others. It would be almost as bad even if she left, but the faster she got moving, the faster she could get to the _Fire's Rose_ at Tamis, and thence to freedom.

"Deal. Name's Rosetta. Call me Rose it'll be the last thing you ever do."

------------------------------

Manfred found the ship almost exactly as he had expected it – sitting at dockside, only two hawsers still holding it to the dock. No more cargo was being loaded aboard, and the ship was secured, waiting only for dawn and the slack tide to float off into safe and comfortable distance, though the docking lanterns were all lit. The only odd point was the giant of a man standing in the bow, leaning against a stay-line. He had not been aboard when Manfred left.

Studying the man, Manfred could not make up his mind if it was safe enough to approach or not. A few moments study identified him as Vesten, since no Vendel in his right mind would be that unkempt. That made him dangerous, especially with the sword over one shoulder and a panzerhand already on.

"He is an ally, for the moment." The songstress' voice was almost not a surprise. Manfred at least managed not to flinch at it, though Rosetta standing behind him did, going so far as to whip out one of her pistols.

Without looking down at her, he asked, "How sure of that are you?"

"Fate favors the foolish, the bold, and the trusting," she replied cryptically. "Come, I wish to be aboard and asleep as soon as possible. I have seen enough, I wish to see no more this day."

She strolled out of the alley they were standing in, aiming directly for the _Angelina's Gold_'s dock and the gangway. Unwilling to leave her to her own protection, Manfred followed, gesturing Rosetta to follow. Along the way, he told her, "Put that away. You can get it again quick enough in case of trouble, but I don't want you making the Vesten nervous."

"What about him making me nervous? I don't like people who're twice me size. They make me feel short."

"Hold your tongue, sorceress. We can't afford fights aboard this boat."

"And the weird woman you're following like a love-sick puppy?"

"Trust her less than you trust me," he said, "she's no Avaloner, but I don't know where she is from."

"Blinded by the pretty smile?"

"Be silent, I need to focus."

They were at the gangway by then, and the Vesten was standing at the head of it, arms crossed over his chest, glaring down at them. "Bad time of night to be walking about a dockside," he rumbled. "You don't look like any of the boys I beat on earlier, but I'm not taking chances now."

"Relax, Vesten," Manfred said, "we're passengers departing tomorrow. It's already arranged with the captain."

"Wouldn't know about that, now would I?"

Another figure stepped up behind the Vesten, and Manfred felt a mildly comforting rush of recognition. "Scaromene," he said, "I remember you from this morning, when I arranged passage with your uncle."

The Vodacce swordsman looked him over carefully, then nodded. "I remember your face, Eisen, though not your name. I also remember you arranged passage for one, not three."

"Your uncle misunderstood me," Manfred countered, "and we have more important concerns. A pirate is planning to attack this ship in the next day or so, and these two will help with that."

"We know that," Leon told easily. "But how do you know neither of them is with the pirate?"

"Fool of a boy," the songstress muttered. "Show me a swordsman, I'll show you a puppet, unable to think, unable to see. We are not your enemies, we are no threat to you."

Leon gave her a searching look, but she shifted behind Manfred, muttering to herself just below intelligibility. "I need more proof than an insulting turn of phrase."

Rosetta stepped out, and held up a sheaf of letters, "Would the pirate's mail help? I swiped it while he was busy burning down a tavern."

"That little stir was your fault, kid?" The Vesten sounded rather more impressed than he should have been, laughed loudly at her nod, "I like you! You're fine to come aboard. There's another swordswoman aboard, but she's out cold up on the quarter-deck. Had her own run in earlier."

Manfred let the two women go ahead of him, and glanced back towards the town. The glow of the tavern fire was visible, though the building and flames themselves were not. It did not look to be spreading, but it was still a terrible loss for the town. After a few moments, however, he contented himself with the thought that at least one sorcerer and pirate had been eliminated, and one threat to his mission. He flexed his hands, remembering the feel of the Montaigne's neck snapping under his last blow.

Despite all his time training, all his missions, it was the first time he had killed someone. He thought he should feel something, but the only emotion he could find was worry over the rest of his mission.

As he settled down against the rail across from the gangway, he could hear the songstress, who's name he still did not know, singing softly to herself.

_Hail, hail, the gang's all here,_

_Leave your worries at the door,_

_They're not going anywhere._

_Hail, hail the gang's all here,_

_When the going gets tough,_

_I know my friends'll still be there…_


	4. Nightwatch

**Highlander Honor**

By Daishi Prime

Chapter 04 – Nightwatch

Floating down the Trade River was, to say the least, boring. The coast slid away at a fair pace, but the _Angelina's Gold_ was no racing yacht. Built for cargo tonnage and float, she was slow as an ox, handled like a pig, and wallowed worse when she came off the wind. The coast of Eisen was monotonous, the cost of Vodacce little better, though at least the Vodacce farms were still occupied and in use. All together, boring.

The first night out passed without violence, much to Maeve's relief, but was still a tense period. Of the four of them officially responsible for 'guarding' the ship, two of them were up at all times. The fact that no attack ever materialized simply made all of them more nervous. Manfred reported killing the Montaigne, but all of them were certain he had been a middle-man, an agent for another, more powerful, individual or group. So their watch continued, rotating every couple of hours, and even those of them not 'on watch' had trouble sleeping, Maeve worse than most.

That had the predictable side effect that, for the second day, when the ship's crew was active and keeping watch, most of them tried to sleep. Still, Maeve could not manage to rest with so many mysteries about, even when she moved her hammock to hang between rigging lines a few yards below the mainmast's yardarm, swinging gently in the breeze, her father's sword cradled across her chest. It was a good spot to keep watch from, and gave her some distance from the slew of strangers aboard, which she had hoped would let her relax, and surrounded her with the calming scents of water and sail.

If she was honest with herself, those strangers were bothering her more than the missing attack was. Traveling with strangers rarely bothered her, a fortuitous side effect of traveling with her father since childhood on his career as a representative for the Queen of Avalon. But something about this crew was causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. There were too many oddities, the method by which they had come together was too strange, and the Captain was nearly schizophrenic, the way he kept changing his mind about who could and could not come aboard. The majority of the working crew were fine, simple sailors making a living as best they could, but the rest...

Watching the deck as sunset approached, Maeve noted Manfred and the two Castillian women sitting on the quarterdeck. The priest was sitting in a chair, brought up for her from the Captain's cabin, while Manfred and the sailor-girl were sitting on the aft rail. The priest was easy enough to understand, since she seemed to have two books with her wherever she went. Maeve had met her type before, though Salorina, or Rina as she preferred, seemed to be the worst case of 'absentmindedness' Maeve had ever seen. The other woman was also simple enough to understand, at least on the surface. A sailor, she had nearly gotten herself thrown overboard by detailing exactly what was wrong with this tub, from the quarterdeck, to the Captain himself, while he was trying to pull away from the docks. Rosetta was a little too close-mouthed about herself, though, and Maeve got the distinct impression she was hiding something disastrous, not the least why she went to the trouble of getting that Montaigne's mail.

Of those three, the one who bothered her most was Manfred. The Eisen was thoroughly practical in outlook, completely average looking with square features, plain brown hair and eyes, solid build but not large, muscled but not obviously so, a few scars but nothing any town laborer would not have – in short, utterly normal. But the way he came aboard, the way he accepted his post on the quarterdeck without a word, the way he seemed to watch everything around him, and the way the Captain seemed ready to piss himself after the one time she had seen Manfred take him aside just before they sailed... all of it told her there was more to this Eisen than the knives he kept hidden up his sleeves.

Léon was simplicity itself to understand, in comparison. An agent of some sort for one of the Princes, he traveled under a false name while looking for someone who did not want to be found, a Vodacce noblewoman of some sort. He was remarkably careful not to reveal who exactly he was looking for, but his questions had made it quite clear that he _was_ looking. Still, it was very rare for Vodacce politics to spill out into the rest of Théah, and he could bring trouble down on them like blood drew sirens, especially if he actually got close to his target.

She turned her attention forward, to see the Vesten standing in the bow, watching the River ahead and the shore to the north. Vilskap presented a 'simple' front of a warrior working his way home. He had the size, weaponry, and accent to match, which caused most of the crew to avoid him. Maeve had already noticed his accent slipping when he was tired, though, and his demeanor was not that of a 'simple warrior'. She had no doubt he could use the weapons he kept on him at all times, but he lacked the sort of easy familiarity with them that she had with her own sword. Even more than Manfred, there was an indefinable air of secrecy about him, a sense of other-worldly knowledge that she had only ever felt in the presence of her Lady, though not as strong a feeling as She caused.

When she returned her attention to the main deck, she found her last 'interesting' crewmate climbing the rigging towards her perch. The woman was neatly arrayed, far more so than an Avalon shantywoman should be on ship-board, short black hair held back by a leather strap, and not a single weapon on her. The thing that bothered Maeve was that, appearances and name aside, it was obvious to Meave's eyes that 'Talia Sanders' was _not_ an Avaloner, not even in the proper use of the term. No woman of Avalon, and certainly none of Innismore or the Highlands had that mix of coloring, the dusky skin, dark hair, and green eyes, and no woman from home would be so utterly ignorant of the Sidhe.

Talia reached the level of Maeve's hammock, and strung a leg and arm through the rigging to hang there as comfortably as possible. For a few minutes the two of them simply observed one another, trading icy considering looks. Whatever the reasons for Maeve's feelings towards Talia, it was obvious Talia returned those feelings in at least equal measure.

Finally growing tired of the staring match, Maeve asked coldly, "What do you want, foreigner?"

Talia cocked her head, and in a remarkably accurate imitation of Maeve's accent, replied, "Can't a lass have a quiet talk wi' someone from home?"

Maeve's eyes narrowed dangerously, "Name me the one and only way to defeat a pookha, and I'll believe you're from the Highlands."

Talia blinked, then sighed, muttering, "Bloody local legends." Her accent shifted, becoming a smooth Castillian take on the Eisen tongue, "Fine, I'm no Avaloner, but it's easier for a girl to pretend to be. Fewer people in these parts know how to deal with someone from such a distant and mysterious place."

"Just stop trying it with me," Maeve said.

Talia nodded, "Fine, I can work with that."

"And just so you know," Maeve continued, "I no more believe you're Castillian than I believe in that Vaticine claptrap."

Talia blinked, and shifted subject rather bluntly, "You do not believe in Théus, the Creator?"

"I believe in him, but I've also met _my_ gods in person," Maeve answered, then grinned, "Done some interesting things with one of them, too. Turn you white as my Lady's hair if I told you."

"Maybe, maybe not," Talia said, "But I suppose the condition of your soul is your problem. That would be what the last War of the Cross was all about, wasn't it? But I'm not up here to discuss philosophy with you. I wanted to talk about the here and now, and the near future."

Maeve quirked an eyebrow, curious despite herself, and shifted to focus more closely. "Anything in particular, or just the weather?"

"Us."

Maeve twitched, then grinned almost viciously. When she replied, her voice was silky-smooth and seductive, "Why honey, I know I'm pretty, but don't you think you're moving a little quick? I mean, we just met and all, don't you think you should spend more time with someone before..." To her intense amusement, Talia blushed, a deep crimson color, and her eyes went wide with embarrassed horror. Maeve could not keep a straight face long enough to finish her joke, and broke out in gales of laughter.

"Th... that was not what I meant," Talia choked out after a few moments, embarrassment turning to anger as she ranted over Maeve's laughter, "Not at all, as you well know! I can't believe you'd insinuate something like that! I'm no harlot!"

Maeve had to struggle to get control of herself again, "Oh, Théus, that was hilarious! The look on your face was priceless!"

Talia was glaring at her now, and the Castillian accent slipped away, replaced by a weird mix of accents and pronunciations Maeve could not place, "You know very well I meant no such thing by my statement! I am trying to be diplomatic and polite, and you insult me!"

Still chuckling slightly, Maeve waved one hand calmingly, "Relax, singer-bird, it was just a little joke. And you set yourself up perfectly, the meaningful look, the solemn tone, then 'us', like that explains everything."

"I meant us as in this _crew_."

"But you weren't clear on that, now were you, lass?"

Talia dropped her head and stared at the deck for a minute, quivering visibly, then snarled something under her breath, and this time Maeve missed it. When she looked up again, she was once again in control of herself, "Are you prepared to be serious now?"

Maeve grinned and rolled around until she was sitting up properly in the hammock. "Sure, but I'd suggest you talk quick. Sunset's here, and that means serious watch begins now. And watching pretty much precludes talking."

"You don't trust me, and that's fine and normal. None of us have reason to trust each other yet," Talia said, "but several of us aboard are going to be traveling together for a while, I think, and it would be best to get to know one another. Well enough that we spend as much time watching our enemies as each other."

Maeve gave her a questioning look. The girl sure was assuming a lot, based on a bare two day's acquaintance. "Dunno what you're talking about, lass. I'm aboard till we reach the mouth of the River, then I'm on a ship for home. My family and my Lady miss me, and I miss them. Well, the former not the latter. Kinda hard to miss my Lady."

Talia shook her head, "believe what you will, Highlander, but the path you follow is different from the path you see." She got a far away look in her eyes, turning to stare east, back the way they had come. When she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper, "Staves and swords over black. Journeys are often longer than planned, and shorter than we would like, Daughter of the Sidhe." Talia shook her head harshly, then turned back to Maeve, face hardened into a mask, "I would pity you, save that I have every reason to believe my fate is now bound to yours. Keep careful watch tonight, there are too many swords in the air for it to be a peaceful one."

Before Maeve could muster a response to that odd speech, Talia loosed her hold on the rigging, and squirreled down the lines to the deck rail, landing with a dancer's grace next to the group around Manfred. She stepped from rail to deck, staggered slightly, then walked slowly and carefully forward and below, heading for the cabin the Captain had surrendered to the priest, and subsequently all three ladies.

Maeve contemplated going after her, but as the darkness of twilight descended, she caught a whiff of cinnamon. "Should I be jealous, my love? She lacks your beauty, but there is a certain... exotic air to her."

Maeve fell back to lying in the hammock, staring up at her Lady. The Sidhe woman was standing on one edge of the hammock, long arms crossed under her breasts, perfect mouth set in a frown, but laughter dancing in her eyes. Maeve just shook her head, "No, Lady, I've no interest in women, as I recall telling _you_ on any number of occasions. And you should not be here. Anyone down there could see you, and there's at least one Vaticine priest on deck right now. It'd be a shame to have to kill my traveling companions for trying to burn you at the stake."

Her Lady flowed down to lay next to her in the hammock, cradling Maeve carefully, one long-fingered hand caressing the hilt of Maeve's claymore. "So you are not interested in your mysterious shantywoman? A pity, the naïve and innocent can be quite entertaining. Then I suppose I should warn you to be careful of her. She is not what she seems."

Maeve snorted, shifting around to make room, and to face her Lady, "I know _that_, it's as obvious as the sunrise. None of us are 'what we seem', when you get right down to it."

"Ah, but she is worse than all of the others," one long finger slid down Maeve's nose and tapped once, "and you will soon discover some of that, I think. But do not ever trust your understanding of her. She will shift and change like the Isles' weather, unpredictable, uncontrollable," the smile grew wider, excited even, and the arms around Maeve tightened, "_dangerous_. Now, rest, my love. You will need your strength in the coming days, and you have not slept in my arms in months, as you were so unkind as to reminded me, recently."

Maeve had learned long ago that struggling against a Sidhe's commands was almost impossible, and resisting this Sidhe's commands was about as likely to succeed as holding back the tide with words alone. Which meant she was fighting the somnolent effect of her Lady's song all the way into sleep.

------------------------------

Rosetta was more listening than talking as Manfred and Rina carried on a friendly, rambling debate. The two were discussing Vaticine theology, which Rosetta found more than a little boring, but at least they _were_ talking, and she was more comfortable with the quick-handed Eisen than any other members of the crew. Since determining which of the Montaigne's letters had been her prize, the time aboard had so far been ridiculously boring for Rosetta, as everyone worried over the incipient attack.

For her part, Rosetta was unconcerned. Wreckers and pirates were always something to be concerned with, of course, and no true captain ever _wanted_ to have her ship attacked. But knowing one was highly probable did not concern her, not in this case. It was not her ship, so she felt little connection to it, and she was a good enough judge of people to know that those aboard this tub were more than capable of fending off whoever was stupid enough to try and storm it. So, all in all, she saw no reason to be concerned, so long as they took the precautions they were taking. Better to worry about the tide and weather, than the possibility of wreckers in the night.

Unfortunately, neither the captain nor her shipmates agreed with her. The closest she could come to someone not clammed up tight staring at the shore looking for danger was Manfred and Rina, and even Manfred was watching the shore as much as his conversation partner. So Rosetta perched on the aft rail, familiarizing herself with her newest pistol and a musket from the ship's armory, and did her best not to go crazy waiting around. She hated not being in charge of a ship, and she could see any number of things that desperately needed to be set to rights.

She saw Talia heading up the rigging, saw where she was heading, and grinned in amusement. When Maeve woke on the first night, just before the ship sailed, she had taken most of the new passengers with relative equanimity. But something about the Avalon singer set her off instantly. The two of them had not screamed, clawed, drawn weapons, or done anything that could actually be called 'fighting'. Yet, they had left Rosetta with the distinct impression of two stray cats debating a territorial line, bristling and snarling but not, quite, ready to take a swipe at the other. Watching the singer going up the lines, Rosetta debated going up there herself, to get a better seat to watch the sparks from, then decided it was not worth the increased probability of being drawn into the resulting conflagration.

Turning her attention to the shore, Rosetta watched a small fishing village slide past on the Eisen side, and noted that most of the small fishing boats were tied up to the docks. An oddity for this late in the day, which she pondered for a few minutes. "Something up with them," she said, thinking aloud, "we'll be seeing some of them tonight, I wager."

"More likely they got word of trouble and are playing it safe," Manfred countered, surprising her. She blinked, turning to look at him with raised eyebrows. "Someone came through looking for boats to conduct a raid on a passing ship. However subtle they were, the local fishermen would know what they were after, and roughly when the raid was planned. Rather than risk being a target or an unfortunate bystander, they tie up instead of making their evening catches."

"How can you be sure they won't be among those coming after us?"

"Because they're Sieger fishermen," Manfred replied, looking the village over sadly. "Between the war and their fool of a lord, they don't have the time or resources to waste playing pirate. Whoever comes after us, if it's even us tonight's attack is aimed at, is going to have to get a ship from one of the trading ports, or steal one."

"Most probably he will steal one," Rina offered, "there are few trading ports along this stretch of the River."

Rosetta was about to reply, but Talia's hard landing a few yards to her left caught her attention. A flash of motion in the rigging, caused to her look up, but all she could see was Maeve, apparently trying to get back to sleep. She turned her attention back to Talia, who was making her way at a rather slower speed than she normally used towards the stairs to the main deck. "Ah, well, however they come, we should have a relatively easy time of it, with this crew. I'm going to have a little chat with our songbird."

She was at the stairs before the others could protest, taking the following drop in one long leap. Mostly, she wanted to find out what was going on between the Avaloner and the Highlander, but she was also interested in finding out anything about the songstress herself. Talia had been rather reticent since coming aboard, and the only people she had spent any time talking to were Manfred, Maeve and the captain, which made for an odd trio.

She reached the hatch to head below, and stopped when she heard voices. "... is a fickle thing, Captain. You fear me for what you think I bring aboard, yet had I not come aboard, your family would not have long survived this journey. I am sorry for if my presence, and my secrets, discomfit you, but if you reveal my presence, Captain, your fate will be far worse than what I see for you now, worse than what I saw for you when first we met. And which of us do you think your Prince, Falisci I believe you said, will believe, should I feel the need to complain to him of your attitude? Do you understand me?" Rosetta could not quite identify the voice until it stopped speaking. The tone of authority and absolute assurance was completely at odds with the mousy shantywoman.

There was a short pause, then she heard the captain growl, "Yes, Lady Sanders, I understand you perfectly."

"Do not worry, Captain. Your interest in this matter will be resolved soon. I am retiring for a time. See that I am not disturbed."

Standing against the hatch, Rosetta debated with herself. It was obvious that Talia had some sort of hold over the captain, but what could a peasant shantywoman have to control a river-boat's captain? Especially, what could an Avaloner have over a Vodacce? And how much trouble was that going to cause her? After a few moments, looking at her own gloved hands, contemplating the letter safely tucked inside her vest, Rosetta decided that, whatever secrets the singer had, Rosetta had little room to complain.

------------------------------

Sunset passed swiftly, plunging the vessel into darkness. The ship's deck-lanterns were lit, and most of the crew settled in to rest. The Captain had, the first night, pulled the ship into a small cove on the Vodacce side of the River and dropped the anchor. However this night, with the Castillian border so close, and no attack materializing the night before despite his passengers' worries, the captain chose to press on through the night. This required a quarter of the crew at stations, making sure the unresponsive craft did not run aground, but still left the ship feeling oddly empty and abandoned. Twilight, and the early portions of the evening and night passed uneventfully, the only sounds the rustle of sails and rope, and the soft swish of water gliding by beneath the hull.

Maeve woke abruptly, far more suddenly and completely than she usually managed. There was none of the usual disorientation, no struggle against the inevitable, simply dreaming of her Lady one moment, awake the next. The long cool presence of her Lady was gone, leaving only a hint of cinnamon and a whisper from her dream, "time to wake, selkie child, and show me why I love you."

Shifting in the hammock, Maeve scanned the deck quickly, noting the deck-lamps, the seven crewmen standing about, Léon standing at the foot of the bowsprit, and Manfred leaning against the ship's wheel's mount. Everything appeared to be in order on the ship, from the crew to the position of the sails to the sound of wind and water.

It was sound that first drew her attention outward, a creak of rope on wood that could not have come from the _Angelina's Gold_. The deck-lamps ruined her night-vision, but after a few minutes she managed to distinguish the shore moving against the sky, and then the triangular shape of a sail. It took her a little longer to resolve that into the entire boat, because it was running without lights. _Could be a smuggler,_ she thought, _but if it is, I'm a Vaticine Cardinal._

She hauled herself out of the hammock and swung around onto the rigging, using the momentum to slip her sword's baldric over her shoulder and head. She was on the deck moments later, dropping the last few feet straight down. She headed aft first, both to get Manfred, and to keep her eye on the mystery ship tailing them. She found it again, a little closer, as she came even with the Eisen. "Company," she told him softly, "port side, aft quarter, running without lights. I can't tell distance, but..."

"If they're smugglers I'm the queen of Avalon," Manfred replied, nodding agreement. "I'll be ready. Warn Léon, then wake the others. We'll wait to sound the alarm until everyone's up, avoid confusion."

"Yeah, sound's good. You be real quiet like, now," she agreed, grinning in anticipation. "I don't want to scare them off just yet."

"I would rather avoid a battle if at all possible, Highlander."

"But where's the fun in that?" She smiled wider then slid down the rail to the deck, moving forward quickly. She stopped on the way to shake Vilskap and a pair of sailors awake, cautioning each to remain quiet.

Léon saw her coming, and walked to meet her, whispering, "Company?"

She nodded, half-way up the fore-deck stairs, "yeah, port quarter aft. Keep an eye out for another ship, though, I only saw one sail, so it's smaller than this tub. If I was them, I'd bring friends."

"Yeah, understood. You'll wake everyone else?"

"Way ahead of you, pretty-boy."

Rousing the rest of the crew was a simple matter of sending the sailors she woke first below to wake the rest, while Vilskap got himself sorted out. She told the sailors to stay below, and keep the crew down there until the alarm sounded, to avoid warning the other ship with a sudden mass of activity. From there, she proceeded beneath the quarterdeck to the cabins, Captain now on the port, first and second mate doubled up on the starboard, the three remaining 'lady passengers' in the captain's cabin directly aft. The captain and mates were easy enough, pushing the doors open and reaching into the cramped spaces just far enough to shake whoever was present.

The Captain's cabin proved more difficult, however, as it was the _only_ door on the ship with a lock. She debated forcing it, since it did not look like much of a lock, but the probable result – high pitched screams – made that a bad choice. Plus, it probably would have made the Captain even less pleased with her than he already was. After a short debate, Maeve sighed, shook her head, and decided on politeness, tapping the door sharply with on knuckle. Loud and sharp enough to be heard, not enough to be heard through the hull and across the water.

She was surprised when the lock released and the door cracked open a few seconds later, having expected all of them to be asleep. She could not tell who she was looking at, since there were no lamps in either passageway or cabin, but... "Up and at 'em, ladies, we're about to be attacked. Stay below, keep out of trouble, and it'll be over pretty quickly, but you'll have to look out for yourselves if someone comes in through the windows back here."

"I'll be on deck shortly," Rosetta whispered back, "Rina and Talia'll stay here. They can take care of themselves fairly well, but I've got guns. Be more use up there."

"Don't come on deck 'till the alarm sounds," Maeve said, "Manfred's hoping to surprise them into leaving peacefully."

"What about you?"

Maeve smiled, "My Lady wants to see me in action again, I see no reason to disappoint her. I also don't want to loose, though, so the more of us are ready, the better."

Maeve returned to the deck, to find the Captain up there as well, standing at the aft rail with Manfred, facing forward. She strolled over to the main hatch, and a quick look below showed her the crew milling about, mostly ready. Nodding to one of the first she woke, she gestured for him to remain, then strolled aft. When she was in comfortable range, she told Manfred, "All set, everyone's up and ready to dance."

Manfred nodded, "Good. There's a second ship, same position right side."

"Starboard quarter," Maeve and the Captain corrected immediately.

In the face of his complete unconcern with their terminology, Maeve continued, "Think they'll pincer us?"

"No," the Captain answered, "one to shoot, the other to board. The one to starboard is further aft. The port ship will swing wide, fire a broadside, and while our attention is focused on them, the one to starboard will move up to board. I've seen this tactic before, from both sides."

"Alarm?"

"Now would be good," Manfred said.

The Captain glared at both of them, then shook himself and pushed between them, heading for the bell mounted on the forward quarterdeck rail. While he went to warn their attackers, Maeve gave Manfred a nod, settled her hat more firmly on her head, and squirreled up a backstay to the mainmast, following a few enterprising souls with muskets. Her claymore probably would be more use in general on the deck, with room to swing, but she did not plan to be up the mast for long. She kept her eyes up, getting them used to the darkness.

The bell was ringing before she reached her target perch at the main-yard, flat and off-key, but very loud and distinct in the otherwise quiet night. Moments later, she heard the yelling voices and pounding steps of the crew rushing to the deck. She turned on reaching the main-yard to look aft, and could just barely make out the two shapes following them in the night. Sure enough, as the Captain had predicted, the starboard ship was swinging away, though it was too dark for her to see if the gun ports were open. The ship to port was closing faster, risking being caught in the broadside to minimize time between shot and boarding.

The broadside came quickly enough, a ragged series of flashes down the side of the starboard ship, followed almost immediately by the thunder of the cannons and the deeper, more worrisome thunder of balls hitting the _Angelina's Gold_. She could tell the gunners were poor, since the shots were neither in unison, nor in order, and while three of them managed to hit their target, only one managed to inflict more than superficial damage. Two struck the hull low on the starboard side, but the third hit the rail just beside one of the _Gold_'s few deck-guns, a little ten-pounder. The shot itself screamed across the deck and over the port side, taking several crewmen with it, but the blast of splinters was far worse, scything across the deck right next to the main hatch.

Bad as that was, though, the Captain was still screaming orders, and the crew responded with a trained will Maeve could only admire. Merchant sailors or not, these men were moving with commendable speed and discipline. Getting the angle for its broadside had caused the starboard ship to loose way, and it was falling aft even as it swung back onto an intercept course, out of the fight for several minutes, at least. The port ship, however, was closing in right behind the first. It was soon almost alongside, close enough for Maeve to make out the motion of the boarders, and the first grappling hooks beginning to spin.

The Captain had been sailing the River for years, however, and had a few tricks up his sleeve. While the port ship closed, the deck guns from the starboard side were loosed and rolled to port, but left a yard or so shy of the rail. The two five-pounders at the aft corners of the quarter deck were swung about, and as the port ship rolled up, both vessels fired off their guns, all of them packed with grape.

The damage to the _Angelina's Gold _was minimal. The port ship was smaller, with a lower main deck, trying to fire past the _Gold_'s much higher quarterdeck. Most of the blasts went up over the sides, instead of through. Conversely, the _Gold_'s guns were shooting down, directly onto the deck. They were also denied a flat shot, but still blasted back the first wave of boarders, and gave Maeve her first good look at the attackers.

_Pathetic,_ was her initial impression. The boarders were in total disarray from the single blast, those still standing falling about on the suddenly slippery deck. But further study showed that, confusion or not, there were a ridiculous number of men on that deck, even after the cannons. "Must've packed 'em in to the deackheads," she muttered.

"Jus' fer this job, aye, miss," one of the sailors on the yard with her agreed, settling the musket he was carrying, "gon' be a righ' mess on th' deck in a bit."

"The more chaos the better," Maeve told him as the grappling lines flew across the intervening water.

Moments later the two ships crashed together, the thunderous impact causing the mast to sway sickeningly. Maeve rod the impact, holding onto a backstay and leaning over the empty space below, laughing with the sheer exhilaration of it. The boarders swarmed up the side, compensating for the lack of height with sheer numbers. A single exchange of ragged musket volleys sent lead whizzing through the air, to be followed by the roaring crash of the _Gold_'s second line of guns. The shock threw back the first wave or boarders, but the second came almost immediately, and then the struggle of bodies reached the deck of the _Angelina's Gold_. The sailors with her on the yardarm began firing, two shooting, two reloading.

There was a second or so when Maeve thought the rush would carry the fight immediately. The _Gold_'s crew were not warriors, tough though all sailors are by nature, and were pressed back to the foot of the mast. But then Vilskap and Léon joined the fray, the later practically dancing amongst the attackers with twin cavalry sabers flashing, the former more arriving in more brutal fashion, crushing his way through the press. She could not see Manfred, but was unconcerned, given the reputation all Eisen enjoyed these days. After a few seconds, as things began to stabilize on the deck, Maeve grinned. Nodding farewell to the gunners in the rigging with her, she drew her claymore, then leapt into the open air.

Halfway to the deck, she found the forestay she was aiming for, and snagged it with her free hand. The jerk was sharp and hard, and did not stop her decent, merely slowed her from a rapid plummet to a controlled fall. She landed on the rail a second later, massive sword howling down before her into the backs of surprised attackers. Instead of dropping to the deck and pressing her attack, however, she kept to the rail. One slice among the many that gave her room cut the forestay she was holding free, and she looped it around her free arm several times. Then she dropped outboard, hanging over the water and the enemy ship, and began hacking at the grappling lines, working her way aft as quickly as possible. She lacked the strength to lift the hooks free, but the attackers' grappling lines were bare-bones things, without the wire coils that would have protected them from her actions.

Dodging the few people remaining on the attacker's ship was relatively simple, given her small size and the height difference. Avoiding the ones already aboard the _Gold_ was more difficult, but still not enough to distract her from her chosen task. The MacDonald school favored unpredictability, and the mass of her claymore gave her swings devastating power. It was simple for her to use one line-cutting swing to generate enough momentum to sweep away an attacker, either above or below her. Added to that was her continuous motion along the ship, swinging like a pendulum as she sought out the lines still tying the ship's together.

Before she could reach the last lines, Vilskap, Léon and Manfred reached the rail themselves, pushing the last of the attackers of it ahead of them. Maeve found herself suddenly dodging bodies, both the fallen and the fleeing, as she went for the last two lines. Before the attackers could reorganize, she hacked through enough lines that those remaining could not hold, and with gunshot cracks of breaking rope and wood, the ships fell away from one another.

Maeve watched the attacker fall away, trying to discern from the activity on the deck what its next action would be. From the confusion, the growing angle on the bow and the men running up the rigging, she figured that ship was done for the night, though the second ship was still closing. Before she could be sure, however, the line wrapped around her arm was jerked hard, and with an unmusical squawk, she found herself briefly airborne, flying free over open water. It was the surprise, more than the water, but still...

She got her bearings in time to land on her feet on the deck, but still stumbled hard into a rather large obstacle. Staggering back and glaring up, she found herself confronted with Vilskap, teeth just visible through his beard, grinning at her. "You're a crazy one, girl," he rumbled, amusement obvious in his tone, "jumpin' off a mast into melee."

Maeve grinned and shoved him, ineffectually, "You're one to talk, bringing a fist to a sword-fight."

"I hate to break up this little celebration," Manfred said, leaning over the quarter-deck rail, "but we have a new problem." He jerked his head, summoning them to the quarterdeck, and everyone followed.

There was almost immediately a pile-up as crewmen stopped, and Maeve had to push her way through to find out why. When she reached the front of the group, she sighed and would have cursed if her mind was not busy evaluating the concurrence of problems she was now faced with. With the second ship soon to board, they were now in dire straights.

Slumped over the ship's wheel, a bright read stain spreading down his back, was the captain.


End file.
